WATERMEADS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEES 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATERMEAD8 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBET 

THE  ORAFTON8 

RICHARD  BALDOCK 

THE  CLINTONS  AND  OTHERS 


WATERMEADS 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL, 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1010 
BT  DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PIGO 


2066151 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I  GEANDFATHEE  JOHN    ....  1 

II  PAST  AND  PEESENT      ....  15 

III  SOME  FEIENDS      .....  27 

IV  AN  EVENING  DEIVE    ....  42 

V  THE  ELDEST  SON        ....  55 

VI     HOLIDAY 68 

VII  AT  THE  CEICKET  MATCH   ...  83 

VIII     POSSIBILITIES 96 

IX     OLIVIA Ill 

X  THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  ....  125 

XI     LETTEES 140 

XII     FEEDA .  156 

XIII     IN  THE  GAEDEN 170 

XIV     WILL  SHE  Do? 183 

XV  A  TENNIS  PAETY         .        .        .        .197 

XVI     AN  INTEEVIEW 213 

XVII     BELLAMY 228 

XVIII  ME.  BLUMENTHAL                        ,  239 

XIX     AN  OFFEE 253 

XX  FEED  is  DISTUEBED     .        .                 .  266 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XXI  IN    JACK'S    ROOM       .       ...       ..,       .  279 

XXII  AN  ENGAGEMENT         ....  292 

XXIII  LUTTEEBOUENE    RfiCTOEY     .           .           .  304 

XXIV  OLIVIA  SPEAKS 318 

XXV  SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MOEN- 

ING 331 

XXVI  FEEDA  PULLS  IT  OFF  .        .        .        .344 

XXVII  FEED   GETS  ON 357 

XXVIII  UNCLE  MAEK  VISITS  WATEEMEADS    .  370 

XXIX  UNCLE    MAEK   LEAVES   WATEEMEADS  384 

XXX  AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  .        .        .        .397 

XXXI  THE  RETUEN  OF  GILES      .        .        .  408 

XXXII  AT  MANOE  FAEM  418 


WATERMEADS 


CHAPTER    I 

GRANDFATHER  JOHN 

"  BOBBY,  just  go  to  the  door  and  look  out  again.  He 
must  be  coming  soon." 

Bobby  took  a  proleptic  mouthful  of  bread  and  jam, 
and  went  obediently  to  the  door,  which  stood  wide  open 
to  admit  the  warm  air  of  the  June  afternoon.  He  stood 
on  the  worn  steps  of  the  topmost  stair  and  looked  out 
over  the  park,  through  which  the  drive  could  be  seen 
winding  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 

"  No  sign  of  him  yet,"  he  said,  and  came  back  chew- 
ing- 

The  Conway  family  was  assembled  round  the  tea- 
table  in  the  great  hall  of  Watermeads.  They  were  all 
there  except  Fred,  the  eldest  son,  from  whom  a  tele- 
gram was  momentarily  expected  which  would  bring  him 
intimately  into  the  circle. 

Sydney  Conway,  Squire  of  Watermeads,  dressed  in 
an  old  suit  of  grey  flannel,  sat  with  one  leg  over  the 
arm  of  an  easy  chair  covered  with  leather  very  much 
worn.  A  man  does  not  take  up  such  a  position  at  the 
age  of  fifty-two  unless  he  is  active  and  spare  of  body, 
and  younger  in  mind  than  in  years.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  imagine  Mrs.  Conway  taking  up  its 
feminine  equivalent,  in  however  light  a  moment.  In  a 
black  gown  much  trimmed  she  sat  upright  at  the  table 
and  did  her  duty.  She  was  a  large  ruminative  woman, 

1 


2  WATERMEADS 

with  an  eye  fixed  on  the  past.  She  was  addicted  to  long 
bursts  of  silence,  but  when  she  spoke  she  spoke  volubly. 
Elsie  and  Rose,  who  were  in  the  early  stages  of  be- 
ing grown  up,  had  their  mother's  abundant  dark  hair 
and  their  father's  amused  alert  expression.  They  were 
both  pretty  girls,  but  Rose  was  the  prettier  of  the  two. 
They  were  dressed  for  tennis,  and  their  rackets  were 
on  a  carved  chest  beneath  one  of  the  tall  windows. 
Bobby  and  Billy,  in  flannel  trousers  too  short  for  them, 
and  flannel  shirts  much  shrunk  in  the  wash,  were  not 
yet  of  an  age  to  distress  themselves  about  such  details. 
They  sat  at  the  round  table,  earnestly  intent  upon  the 
business  in  hand,  which  appeared  to  be  that  of  adjust- 
ing a  larger  proportion  of  plum  jam  to  a  lesser  pro- 
portion of  bread  than  might  have  been  thought  possi- 
ble. Lastly,  Penelope,  light  of  her  mother's  eyes,  sat 
birdlike  observant  of  everything  and  everybody  by  her 
mother's  side,  and  consumed  her  fair  share  of  whatever 
was  present  for  consumption. 

This  was  tea  poured  out  of  a  large  silver  teapot,  with 
milk  and  sugar  in  vessels  to  match;  a  cottage  loaf, 
which  continuous  assaults  were  fast  reducing  to  nullity ; 
a  large  plain  cake  equally  in  process  of  eclipse;  and  a 
large  jar  of  jam.  There  was  no  butter.  Butter  costs 
more  than  jam,  made  at  home  from  a  glut  of  stone 
fruit;  and  money  was  abundantly  scarce  at  Water- 
meads. 

The  hall  was  stone-floored  and  pleasantly  cool  on 
this  hot  summer  day.  The  tea-table,  round  which 
there  would  have  been  room  for  more  than  the  seven 
who  were  seated  by  it,  was  in  a  corner,  and  left  plenty 
of  space  for  still  larger  pieces  of  furniture.  The  hall, 


GRANDFATHER   JOHN  3 

indeed,  looked  rather  bare;  but  that  was  probably  be- 
cause such  of  the  furniture  as  was  not  old  enough  and 
solid  enough  to  defy  neglect  was  so  very  shabby. 
There  were  a  few  pieces  of  armour  on  the  walls,  as  well 
as  pictures  large  and  small,  of  which  some  of  the  can- 
vases needed  repair,  and  in  which  cracks  in  the  paint 
were  almost  universal.  Above  the  mantelpiece  was  an 
unoccupied  space,  upon  which  a  rectangular  mark  indi- 
cated a  picture  lately  removed. 

In  spite  of  its  shabbiness  and  general  untidiness,  the 
hall  was  not  unattractive.  It  had  fine  proportions,  plenty 
of  light,  and  a  nucleus  of  old  and  valuable  possessions; 
it  had  also  the  air  of  being  constantly  lived  in.  There 
were  books  and  papers  scattered  about  everywhere;  a 
writing-table  furnished  with  heavy  silver  was  littered 
all  over.  There  were  flowers  in  big  jars  on  the  heavy 
oak  presses  and v  chests,  and  in  smaller  vases  here  and 
there.  A  cottage  piano,  looking  presumptuously  out 
of  place  in  its  light  oak  case,  straggled  meagrely 
across  a  corner:  a  work-basket  piled  with  linen  and 
bunched-up  hosiery  stood  by  one  of  the  shabby  easy 
chairs  near  the  great  hearth.  And  there  was  still 
room  for  hats,  coats,  walking-sticks,  umbrellas,  golf- 
clubs,  tennis  rackets,  fishing-rods,  and  even  garden- 
ing utensils,  which  did  not  keep  modestly  to  the  back- 
ground, but  challenged  notice  from  wherever  they 
had  been  put  down  by  those  last  using  them. 

Sydney  Conway  threw  a  glance  at  the  empty  space 
above  the  mantelpiece.  "  What  shall  we  put  up  in 
the  place  of  Grandfather  John  ?  "  he  asked.  "  We 
can't  leave  the  wall  like  that!  it  looks  beastly." 

All    except    Mrs.     Conway,    whose    back    was    to- 


4  WATERMEADS 

wards  the  fireplace,  fixed  their  gaze  upon  the  empty 
space. 

"  Put  up  Grandfather  George,"  suggested  Elsie. 
"  His  red  coat  would  look  (rather  nice." 

"  That  would  leave  an  empty  space  in  the  dining- 
room,"  said  Rose,  "  and  the  wall  is  much  worse  than 
this." 

"  You  could  put  the  Holbein  into  the  dining-room. 
It  is  the  dark  wall,  and  nobody  could  tell  it  wasn't  a 
Holbein  there." 

"  Not  a  bad  idea,"  said  their  father.  "  But  I  still 
believe  it  is  a  Holbein,  in  spite  of  the  Professor." 

"  If  you  moved  a  picture  out  of  the  dining-room 
you  would  have  to  put  something  there  instead  of 
it,"  said  Bobby,  with  the  common  sense  that  distin- 
guished him.  "  Then  you  would  have  to  put  some- 
thing else  in  the  place  where  you  got  that  from. 
You  would  spend  a  week  moving  pictures  and  have 
a  bare  place  somewhere  at  the  end  of  it." 

His  father  laughed.  "  Whatever  we  make  of  you, 
Bobby,"  he  said,  "  you  will  get  on.  You  foresee 
everything." 

"  He  doesn't  foresee  that  we  should  get  tired  of 
moving  pictures  long  before  a  week,"  said  Elsie.  "  We 
should  have  a  horrid  space  somewhere,  and  sit  down 
and  look  at  it  until  it  was  time  to  sell  the  next  pic- 
ture." 

"  Ah,  but  I  hope  this  is  the  last,"  said  Sydney  Con- 
way  genially.  "  If  it  fetches  a  big  price  today,  as  I 
hope  it  will,  it  will  certainly  be  the  last.  Where  is 
that  telegraph  boy?  Freddy  must  have  sent  the  wire 
long  ago.  Billy,  go  and  have  another  look." 


GRANDFATHER    JOHN  5 

But  no  telegraph  boy  was  yet  in  sight,  and  the  dis- 
cussion was  resumed. 

"  I  like  Elsie's  suggestion,"  said  Sydney.  "  Grand- 
father George  and  his  red  coat  will  cheer  us  up,  and 
we  want  cheering  up,  now  we  have  lost  Grandfather 
John.  When  we  have  filled  his  gap  we  shall  forget 
all  about  him.  With  all  his  virtues  he  was  no  beauty. 
I've  a  good  mind  to  go  and  tackle  it  now."  He  sat 
up  in  his  chair  and  looked  active.  "  We  needn't 
bother  about  filling  up  the  Holbein  space  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. We  never  go  into  the  drawing-room." 

"  I'll  help  you,"  said  Elsie.  "  I  really  believe,  when 
we've  finished,  we  shall  we  better  off  than  we  were  be- 
fore. I  never  really  cottoned  to  Grandfather  John, 
and  if  Raeburn  did  paint  him  I  think  he  might  have 
been  better  employed.  We  shall  soon  get  used  to  his 
loss." 

Mrs.  Conway,  who  had  been  sitting  unmoved  during 
the  discussion,  now  broke  into  speech. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that !  "  she  cried,  in  vehement 
reproach.  "  I'm  sure  to  hear  you  all  speaking  as  if 
nothing  in  the  world  was  sacred  makes  me  shudder. 
I  sometimes  wonder  whether  any  of  you  have  got  any 
hearts  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  mother,"  said  Sydney,  "  I  don't  know 
that  Grandfather  John  was  so  particularly  sacred. 
We  had  no  idea  that  Raeburn  painted  him,  and  none 
of  us  thought  anything  of  him  until  the  Professor  re- 
jected the  Holbein,  and  hit  upon  him  for  sacrifice. 
You  yourself  have  often  commented  unfavourably 
upon  his  strawberry  nose,  and  hinted  that  he  drank 
more  than  was  good  for  him.  I  dare  say  he  did,  poor 


6  WATERMEADS 

fellow.  We  shall  be  much  better  off  with  Grandfather 
George's  red  coat  than  with  Grandfather  John's  red 
nose." 

"  That  is  not  the  point,  Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Conway 
severely,  "  and  you  know  it  is  not  the  point.  Drink 
or  no  drink — and  as  to  that  I  reserve  my  opinion,  and 
cannot  but  think  that  the  plain  signs  of  it  will  have 
a  depressing  effect  upon  the  price  of  the  picture — your 
Grandfather  John,  as  you  call  him,  was  an  ancestor. 
The  beautiful  Reynolds  has  gone;  the  other  two 
Reynoldses  have  gone;  the  great  rose-water  bowl  has 
gone;  the  tankards  have  gone,  and  I  ask  myself  what 
will  go  next.  I  sit  here  denuded."  She  now  began 
to  make  play  with  her  shapely  hands.  "  I  sometimes 
ask  myself  what  we  have  got  for  it  all — how  much  bet- 
ter off  we  are  than  before  all  the  treasures  of  our 
house  began  to.  be  dispersed  in  this  careless  light- 
hearted  fashion — whether  life  is  worth  living  at  all, 
and  I  was  not  far  better  off  in  my  girlhood,  sur- 
rounded by  few  luxuries,  it  is  true,  but  with  enough 
and  to  spare,  and  no  anxiety  whatever  as  to  the  mor- 
row's joint,  or  the  day's  supply  of  milk  and  bread." 

Her  husband,  who  had  listened  to  this  exordium  with 
the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  enjoying  such  points  as  were 
made  in  it,  and  on  the  look-out  for  others,  now  turned 
to  her  with  an  ingratiating  smile,  and  said :  "  Well, 
you  know,  mother,  we  have  managed  to  support  our- 
selves in  comfort,  if  not  in  luxury,  for  some  years,  and 
we  are  all  still  living  at  Watermeads.  That's  some- 
thing, isn't  it?  We  couldn't  have  got  on  at  all  if 
we  hadn't  made  up  our  minds  to  sell  a  few  things  that 
we  can  perfectly  well  do  without.  It's  a  bore,  of 


GRANDFATHER   JOHN  7 

course,  but  the  less  we  think  about  it  the  happier  we 
shall  be.  After  all,  we've  got  lots  of  jolly  things 
left." 

"  What  did  we  get  out  of  the  beautiful  Sir 
Joshua?  "  Mrs.  Conway  pursued  her  unbending  course. 
"  Seven  thousand  pounds.  And  it  was  sold  again  last 
year  for  eleven." 

"  Well,  that  was  the  fortune  of  war,"  said  her  hus- 
band equably.  "  And  as  for  five  thousand  pounds  out 
of  the  seven  going  in  an  unlucky  speculation,  that  was 
the  fortune  of  war  too,  and  it's  one  of  the  things  that 
we  don't  talk  about.  Besides,  those  shares  may  turn 
up  trumps  still.  You  can't  call  the  money  lost  until 
the  mine  closes  down  altogether.  I  did  it  for  the  best 
— for  you  and  the  children." 

Elsie  put  her  hand  on  his  knee.  "  Darling  old 
Micawber ! "  she  said  affectionately.  "  We  don't  miss 
anything;  and  we're  very  happy." 

"  That  is  not  the  point,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Conway. 
"  You  are  too  young  to  see  that  we  are  living  all  the 
time  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  We  are  like  Pontius 
Pilate  fiddling  while  Rome  was  burning.  One  ancestor 
after  the  other  goes;  and " 

"  Well,  mother  darling,  after  all  they're  not  your 
ancestors,  and  we've  got  on  pretty  well  without  them." 

"  Grandfather  Giles  sent  Freddy  to  Charterhouse," 
said  Rose. 

"  And  Grandmother  Penelope  sent  him  to  Cam- 
bridge, and  rebuilt  two  farm-houses,  besides  keeping 
us  going  for  a  year,"  added  her  father.  "  Freddy  has 
had  the  best  of  educations,  and  is  now  hard  at  work 
repairing  the  family  fortunes.  Most  of  the  money  we 


8  WATERMEADS 

ever  got  out  of  our  sales  has  been  well  spent;  and 
apart  from  education,  we  have  all  kept  ourselves 
alive.  We  had  to  be  kept  alive,  hadn't  we,  mother?  " 

"  You  said  just  now,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  who 
had  been  ruminating,  "  that  the  pictures  sold  were  not 
of  my  ancestors.  I  am  well  aware  of  that  fact,  but  I 
hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  take  some  interest  in  the 
things  that  are  in  my  home." 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother,  of  course.  I  only  meant  that  an- 
cestors as  ancestors  aren't  so  dreadfully  to  be  regret- 
ted." 

"  Besides,  they  are  doing  such  a  lot  for  us,"  said 
Rose.  "  We  quite  hope  that  Grandfather  John  is  go- 
ing to  send  Bobby  and  Billy  to  Charterhouse  too. 
I  think  we  have  been  very  ungrateful  to  him.  We  have 
talked  about  his  red  nose  and  not  thought  anything  of 
him;  and  all  the  time  he  has  been  waiting  and  looking 
at  us,  quite  ready  to  help  us  when  the  time  came." 

"  If  my  advice  had  been  listened  to,"  said  Mrs.  Con- 
way,  "  none  of  this  would  have  happened.  We  should 
still  have  had  all  our  beautiful  and  valuable  things 
around  us.  Here  we  are,  living  in  a  big  house,  with 
thousands  of  acres  of  land.  What  is  land  for?  I 
speak  under  correction,  but  I  was  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve that  it  was  of  some  use  for  providing  food  for 
people  to  eat." 

"  Quite  right,  mother,"  said  Sydney,"  and  it  is  all 
being  farmed.  Unfortunately,  just  at  present,  it 
doesn't  produce  much  for  us  to  eat.  But  agriculture 
is  bound  to  take  a  turn  by  and  by." 

"  The  park  is  not  being  farmed,"  said  Mrs.  Con- 
way. 


GRANDFATHER    JOHN  9 

"  The  park  is  being  grazed.  It  produces  food  for 
Mr.  Stanborough's  sheep." 

"  And  why  grazed  ?  Have  I  not  begged  and  implored 
you,  Sydney,  to  use  all  that  valuable  land  for  French 
gardening?  " 

"  You  have,  mother." 

"  Then  why  has  it  not  been  done  ?  I  took  pencil  and 
paper,  worked  it  all  out,  and  showed  you  the  figures 
myself.  The  park  covers  fifty-four  acres.  If  a  waiter 
near  Brighton  could  make  a  thousand  pounds'  profit 
in  one  year  out  of  half  an  acre,  as  we  were  assured 
was  being  done,  then  the  park  would  produce  no  less 
than  one  hundred  and  eight  thousand  pounds  a  year 
if  it  was  made  proper  use  of.  Subtract  the  eight  thou- 
sand for  contingencies,  and 

"  Oh,  but  why  do  that,  mother  ?  Eight  thousand 
pounds  is  a  lot  of  money." 

"  I  wish  to  be  on  the  right  side  and  to  leave  a  mar- 
gin. Subtracting  the  eight  thousand  you  would  have 
left  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year,  unless  my 
arithmetic  is  at  fault;  and  I  for  one  should  consider 
myself  well  off  with  half  that  income." 

"  So  should  I,  mother,  quite  well  off.  Still,  there 
was  that  little  question  of  markets,  you  know;  and  a 
few  other  little  questions  which  seemed  to  make  your 
scheme,  well  thought-out  as  it  was,  slightly  fly-blown. 
No,  we  couldn't  save  ourselves  by  French  gardening, 
or  we  would  have  had  a  go  at  it.  We've  had  a  go 
at  quite  a  lot  of  things,  you  know.  It  hasn't  been  for 
want  of  having  goes  at  things  that  we  are  not  so  well 
off  as  we  should  like  to  be." 

Penelope  broke  silence.     "  You  had  a  go  at  Uncle 


10  WATERMEADS 

Mark,  didn't  you,  father,  after  you  had  spent  all  your 
own  money?  "  she  asked  in  a  piping  voice. 

Bobby  and  Billy  stared  at  her ;  Elsie  and  Rose  made 
motions  of  despair  towards  one  another.  Mrs.  Con- 
way  awoke  out  of  the  beginnings  of  a  sort  of  catalep- 
tic trance,  in  which  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  lost  op- 
portunities, and  said  indignantly :  "  You  should  not 
put  such  words  into  the  child's  mouth,  Sydney.  I 
sometimes  wonder  what  you  will  say  next." 

Her  husband  laughed.  "  I  sometimes  wonder  what 
Miss  Muffet  will  say  next,"  he  said.  "  Who  told  you 
about  Uncle  Mark,  terrible  infant  ?  " 

"  Mother  did,"  replied  Penelope  ungratefully.  "  She 
said  that  he  was  very  rich,  but  he  had  such  funny  ideas 
that  she  was  afraid  he  wasn't  going  to  leave  his  money 
to  us." 

"  I  did  not  say  funny  ideas,"  said  Mrs.  Conway. 
"  You  must  be  careful  how  you  speak,  Penelope 
darling.  Little  girls  cannot  be  expected  to  understand 
everything,  but  I  thought  you  were  old  enough  and 
sensible  enough  to  be  told  certain  things.  Uncle 
Mark's  ideas  are  the  reverse  of  funny.  They  are  un- 
accountable, they  are  wicked,  if  you  like.  But  they 
are  not  funny,  and  I  never  said  they  were." 

"  Well,  I  think  they  are  rather  funny,  mother," 
said  Sydney.  "  Still,  I  don't  despair  of  Uncle  Mark 
yet.  He  wouldn't  do  anything  when  I  asked  him,  it  is 
true.  He  said — well,  I  won't  say  what  he  said." 

"  If  you  are  acting  out  of  consideration  to  me,  Syd- 
ney," said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  you  may  spare  yourself  the 
trouble.  As  you  have  opened  up  the  subject,  I  should 
like  Penelope  to  know — and  I  should  like  all  my  chil- 


11 

dren  to  know,  and  they  can  judge  for  themselves  how 
far  your  description  of  your  Uncle  Mark's  ideas  as 
funny  is  justified — exactly  why  they  have  never  set 
eyes  on  him,  although  I  believe  they  are  his  only  liv- 
ing relations." 

"  Oh,  don't  go  into  that  now,  mother,"  said  Elsie. 
"  We  have  heard  it  do/ens  of  times." 

"  You  have  not  heard  it  dozens  of  times,  Elsie,"  said 
her  mother,  "  and  whatever  you  have  heard  is  prob- 
ably not  the  precise  truth." 

But  her  husband  stopped  her.  "  I  don't  want  it 
talked  about,  mother,"  he  said  decisively.  "  Uncle 
Mark  behaved  like  the  old  fool  he  is,  in  spite  of  his 
reputation ;  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  If  he  chooses  to 
behave  better  by  and  by,  well  and  good;  but  we  don't 
look  forward  to  occupying  dead  men's  shoes.  We'll 
rub  along  somehow,  and  if  Grandfather  John  has 
fetched  his  proper  value  today,  why  we  shall  have  all 
we  can  want  for  some  time  to  come." 

Mrs.  Con  way  subsided  into  her  contemplation  of  the 
past,  and  Elsie  said :  "  What  will  he  fetch,  Dad  ?  He 
wasn't  in  a  very  good  state." 

A  heavy  door  leading  from  the  back  regions  of  the 
house  opened  with  a  creak,  and  a  maid  came  in  with 
a  telegram.  Sydney  Conway  sprang  up  and 
seized  it  from  her.  "  At  last ! "  he  said,  tearing 
it  open. 

The  maid  on  her  way  out  lingered  to  hear  the  news. 
She  was  a  stout  young  girl  from  the  village,  and  was 
almost  as  anxious  to  know  the  price  that  the  Raeburn 
had  fetched  at  Christie's  as  Sydney  Conway  himself. 

"  Two  thousand  seven  hundred,"  said  Sydney,  and 


12  WATERMEADS 

looked  round  him  with  an  expression  of  satisfaction 
and  disappointment  combined. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  "  It's  not  so  bad," 
said  Elsie. 

"  I  never  really  expected  more,"  said  Rose. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  did  either,"  said  Syd- 
ney, putting  the  telegram  into  his  pocket. 

The  door  banged  behind  the  maid. 

"  Might  I  be  permitted  to  see  Fred's  telegram  ?  " 
enquired  Mrs.  Conway,  in  a  voice  of  stately  humility. 

"  That's  all  it  says,  mother,"  said  Sydney,  handing 
it  to  her.  "  It's  all  there  was  to  say.  Well,  there 
it  is !  It  will  run  to  Charterhouse.  Sonnies,  Grand- 
father John  has  turned  up  trumps,  red  nose  and  all. 
Three  cheers  for  Grandfather  John." 

Bobby  and  Billy,  touched  by  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  cheered  lustily,  and  were  joined  by  Elsie  and 
Rose.  Penelope  looked  sharply  at  her  mother,  on 
whose  face  appeared  an  expression  of  pained  expostu- 
lation. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  encourage  them  to  behave 
in  that  way,  Sydney,"  she  said.  "  Really  the  house 
is  like  a  beer-garden — and  Alice  coming  in  in  that 
way  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  not  even  taking 
the  trouble  to  hand  the  telegram  on  a  salver, 
of  which  we  have  some  left — I  sometimes  wonder 
whether  we  have  retained  any  of  the  habits  of  gentle- 
folk." 

"  Well,  mother,  we  must  show  our  gratitude  to 
Grandfather  John.  And  it  is  jolly  to  feel  that  we're 
on  the  right  side  of  things  again,  and  Bobby  and  Billy 
are  to  get  their  chance — now  isn't  it  ?  " 


GRANDFATHER   JOHN  13 

Mrs.  Con  way  put  the  telegram  down  on  the  table. 
"  On  the  right  side !  "  she  echoed.  "  And  how  long 
are  we  to  remain  on  the  right  side?  What  about  the 
interest  on  the  mortgage?  What  about  the  roof? 
What  about  Bilson  and  Puckeridge  and  Jones,  with 
their  acounts  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  will  settle  most  of  those,  and  we  don't  want 
to  look  too  far  ahead,  just  when  we've  got  a  pot  of 
money.  It's  ungrateful  to  Grandfather  John,  and  be- 
sides, something  is  sure  to  happen  before  we  have 
come  to  an  end  of  it.  I  wonder  if  it  will  run  to  a 
horse  again.  That's  what  I  miss  more  than  anything 
else — not  having  a  horse  in  the  stable." 

"  Will  it  run  to  our  allowances  ? "  asked  Rose. 
"  Elsie  and  I  are  in  rags." 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  "  said  her  father.  "  You  shall  have 
all  that  and  a  bit  besides.  And,  mother,  you  shall 
have  twenty  pounds  to  do  what  you  like  with.  You 
haven't  had  twenty  pounds  in  your  purse  for  years, 
have  you?  " 

He  bent  over  her  and  imprinted  a  sounding  kiss  on 
her  voluminous  cheek. 

She  was  not  softened  by  the  caress.  "  If  you  would 
give  the  whole  of  this  money  into  my  keeping,  Syd- 
ney," she  said,  "  I  should  not  want  twenty  pounds  for 
myself,  or  any  other  sum  beyond  what  would  supply 
me  with  bare  necessities.  Penelope  must  have  shoes; 
the  child  is  growing  fast,  and " 

"  I  want  a  new  tennis  racket,  father,"  piped  Pe- 
nelope. "  Elsie  and  Rose  have  got  them,  and  I  don't 
see  why  7  shouldn't." 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Mother  Bunch.     You  shall  all 


14  WATERMEADS 

have  something  that  you  want.  Bobby  and  Billy,  you 
shall  each  have  a  bicycle." 

"  Then  7  want  a  bicycle,"  Penelope  amended  her  re- 
quest, "  and  a  tennis  racket  too." 

Her  mother  drew  her  towards  her.  "  My  pet,"  she 
said,  "  you  shall  not  be  left  out  in  the  cold.  If  money 
is  going  to  be  thrown  away  on  amusements  that  is 
needed  for  keeping  the  wolf  from  the  door,  mother 
will  see  that  you  share  with  the  rest." 

"  Of  course  she'll  share  with  the  rest,"  said  Sydney. 
"  Lord,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  something  to  spend 
again!  I  feel  ready  for  anything  now." 

They  rose  from  their  chairs.  "  Shall  we  change  the 
pictures  now,  Dad?  "  asked  Elsie.  "  I'll  go  and  get 
the  steps." 

"  I  think  we'll  leave  that  for  the  present,"  said  Syd- 
ney. "  It's  a  jolly  evening.  I'm  going  up  to  see  if 
I  can  get  a  fish  in  Sandford  Hole.  Who'll  come  with 
me?" 


CHAPTER   II 

PAST  AND   PRESENT 

IT  was  not  much  in  the  way  of  possessions  still  re- 
maining to  him  that  Sydney  Conway  did  not  share 
equally  with  his  family;  but  it  was  understood  that 
Sandford  Hole,  a  wide  willow-bordered  pool  in  a  se- 
cluded corner  of  the  park,  and  the  fat  trout  that 
lurked  there,  were  reserved  for  his  rod.  Nevertheless 
Bobby  and  Billy  eagerly  accepted  his  proffered  com- 
panionship, rather  than  fish  for  themselves  in  other 
waters.  Elsie  and  Rose  would  also  have  accompanied 
him,  had  not  Mrs.  Conway  reminded  them  that  they 
were  under  contract  to  pick  currants  and  raspberries 
for  a  tart  to  be  consumed  that  evening.  Penelope 
stayed  of  choice  with  her  mother.  There  was  some- 
thing she  wanted  to  learn  from  her. 

Sydney  set  out  at  a  smart  pace,  with  Bobby  and 
Billy  on  either  side  of  him,  carrying  the  one  a  land- 
ing-net, the  other  a  fishing  basket.  Intent  on  the 
object  of  their  journey,  they  yet  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, when  they  reached  a  certain  group  of  trees,  to 
look  back  upon  the  house.  This  was  almost  a  matter 
of  ritual,  and  no  visitor  came  to  Watermeads  without 
being  taken  to  the  five  beeches  and  made  to  admire 
the  house  as  seen  from  that  point. 

It  stood,  a  winged  porticoed  pile  of  weathered  stone, 
backed  by  a  heavy  mass  of  foliage,  now  beautifully 

15 


16  WATERMEADS 

varied  by  the  fresh  green  of  beech  and  the  sombre  tints 
of  the  deodars  and  the  giant  evergreens  that  grew  in 
the  garden.  A  flight  of  shallow  stone  steps,  at  the 
top  of  which  was  a  broad  terrace,  ran  right  along  the 
main  part  of  the  house  and  gave  it  an  air  of  welcome, 
in  which,  indeed,  both  in  good  times  and  bad,  it  had 
never  been  lacking.  It  was  said  that  a  hundred  car- 
riages had  once  stood  on  the  gravel  square,  now  al- 
most as  green  as  the  park  itself,  in  front  of  the  house. 
The  gardens  were  behind  and  on  either  side;  the  house 
faced  the  park  baldly,  and  nothing  but  trees  and 
grass  could  be  seen  from  its  front  windows,  except  a 
glimpse  of  distant  country  through  a  gap.  The  vil- 
lage was  a  mile  away;  but  the  tower  of  the  church 
showed  amongst  the  trees,  and  the  thatched  roof  of 
the  modest  vicarage  was  hard  by  it.  The  house  had 
fort}r  bedrooms,  all  of  them  furnished,  and  once,  on 
occasion,  occupied;  the  gardens  covered  fifteen 
acres ;  the  stables  would  have  housed  a  troop  of  cav- 
alry. But  now  there  were  two  women  servants  in- 
doors, and  a  man  and  a  boy  outside. 

And  yet  Sydney  Conway's  eyes  brightened  as  he 
looked  back  on  the  house  in  which  he  had  been  born 
and  brought  up. 

"  That's  your  home,  sonnies,"  he  said.  "  Wherever 
you  go  and  whatever  you  do  when  you  grow  up,  you'll 
never  forget  that  you  lived  here  when  you  were  boys. 
You  couldn't  have  a  jollier  place  to  live  in,  could 
you  now?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bobby  and  Billy  with  one  accord.  They 
were  quite  satisfied  with  their  home,  although  they 
would  have  liked  to  exchange  it  for  lodgings  at  the 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  17 

seaside  rather  more  often  than  had  been  possible  of 
late  years.  That  was  about  all  the  difference  that  the 
pinch  of  poverty  made  to  them.  They  had  plenty  to 
eat,  and  the  whole  beautiful  place  to  play  about  in, 
much  more  exciting  as  to  the  overgrown  garden  than 
if  it  had  been  kept  spick  and  span  by  a  dozen  gar- 
deners. They  did  their  lessons  at  the  Vicarage,  played 
cricket  with  the  villagers  on  the  ground  in  the  park, 
went  birds-nesting  with  the  village  boys,  fished  in  that 
small  portion  of  the  stream  that  their  father  still  re- 
served and  occasionally,  unknown  to  him,  in  the  water 
that  was  rented  from  him.  They  ran  with  the  hounds, 
and  had  even  scraped  up  enough  money  two  years 
before  to  buy  a  foal,  which  they  were  now  breaking 
in  themselves.  They  got  much  more  fun  out  of  this 
than  if  there  had  been  ponies  for  them  in  the  stables 
as  a  matter  of  course.  There  was  no  need  to  waste 
commiseration  on  Bobby  and  Billy,  and  their  father 
wasted  none.  So  far,  they  had  been  as  fortunate  as 
if  he  had  been  able  to  give  them  all  that  his  father 
had  given  him.  And  now  they  were  to  have  their 
chance  for  the  future. 

"  You  will  work,  when  you  get  to  school,  won't 
you?  "  he  said  as  they  went  on. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Dad,"  said  Billy  promptly. 

Bobby  said  nothing.  He  probably  would  work.  He 
liked  work,  of  any  sort,  whether  with  his  brains  or 
with  his  hands,  and  went  at  it  doggedly  until  he  had 
finished  what  he  had  set  out  to  do.  Billy  was  not  so 
sure  in  his  efforts,  but  he  was  quick  enough,  and  the 
estimable  Vicar  had  kept  him  at  it. 

"  When  I  was  your  age  I  didn't  work,"  their  father 


18  WATERMEADS 

confessed  to  them.  "  I  went  in  for  having  a  good 
time,  and  now  I  wish  I  hadn't.  At  least,  what  I  wasn't 
sensible  enough  to  see  in  those  days  was  that  the  best 
possible  time  a  boy  could  have,  or  a  man  either,  was 
by  working  hard  as  well  as  playing  hard." 

Bobby  and  Billy  had  heard  this  before,  and  took  it 
dutifully,  striding  along  on  their  sturdy  legs,  their 
pleasant  freckled  faces  marked  as  yet  by  no  sense  of 
the  burdens  and  responsibilities  of  life. 

It  could  not  be  said,  indeed,  that  their  father's  face 
was  noticeably  marked  by  such  signs;  but  now  he 
looked  down  at  them  with  a  kind  of  thwarted  earnest- 
ness. 

"  Ah,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see  it ! "  he  cried, 
twisting  his  thin  muscular  hands.  "  Look  here,  boys, 
you've  got  the  whole  world  before  you.  You  can  do 
what  you  like  with  it.  If  you  want  to  be  rich  by  and 
by,  you  can  be  rich.  If  you  want  fame,  you  can  have 
it.  You  can  have  anything  you  like  if  you'll  only 
work  for  it." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  work,  father,"  said  Bobby, 
anxious  to  calm  his  emotion,  which  seemed  to  be  some- 
what distressing  him,  and  threatened  to  come  across 
the  evening's  enjoyment. 

"  Yes,  dear  old  boys — I  believe  you  will,  both  of  you. 
But  what  I  want  you  to  see,  if  I  can  only  get  it  into 
your  heads,  is  how  damned  lucky  you  are." 

Bobby  and  Billy  did  not  blench  at  the  epithet, 
which  was  in  customary  use  towards  them,  although 
they  were  prohibited  from  using  it  themselves. 

"  You  have  five  years  before  you,  in  which  you  can 
go  straight  ahead.  No  anxiety  about  what  you're 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  19 

to  do! — your  work's  all  mapped  out.  Jolly  work, 
too — for  boys  who  have  sensible  tastes,  as  you  have. 
You'll  have  other  boys  now  to  pit  your  wits  against. 
Stick  to  it,  and  beat  'em.  Never  let  yourselves  get 
slack — not  for  a  day,  not  for  an  hour.  Every  hour 
will  count.  You'll  have  the  games  too,  and  you  must 
be  just  as  keen  about  them  as  about  the  work;  but 
not  keener — don't  make  that  mistake." 

"  We  shall  try  to  get  into  the  eleven,"  said  Bobby. 
"  You  were  in  it,  and  you've  helped  us." 

"  Of  course  you'll  try  to  get  into  the  eleven.  It  was 
the  only  thing  I  did  try  for,  worse  luck;  and  I  don't 
want  you  to  make  the  same  mistakes  as  I  did.  You've 
got  a  glorious  time  before  you.  Lord,  how  I  wish  I'd 
got  it  all  over  again !  What  I  want  you  to  see  is  that 
you'll  have  twice  as  good  a  time  if  you  take  the  sixth 
form,  and  a  scholarship  at  the  end  of  it,  as  seriously 
as  you  take  the  eleven.  You've  got  to  do  both,  and 
you've  got  to  make  yourselves  just  as  keen  on  the  one 
as  on  the  other." 

"  We'll  work  hard,"  said  Billy  again. 

"  Oh,  well !  It's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods,"  he  said, 
suddenly  relinquishing  his  earnest  air.  "  You've  got 
your  chance.  With  all  the  mistakes  I've  made  I've 
seen  to  that — with  Fred,  and  you  too.  If  you  love 
your  old  father,  as  I  know  you  do,  you'll  work  to 
please  him.  And  after  a  bit,  if  you're  built  that  way, 
you'll  see  it  all,  and  work  because  work  is  the  only 
thing  in  life  that's  worth  doing.  Well,  here  we  are ! 
I  wonder  if  we  shall  get  old  Isaac  tonight.  It  would 
be  a  good  omen  if  we  did,  after  he  has  foiled  us  so 
often." 


20  WATERMEADS 

Tea  was  cleared  away  from  the  hall  by  Alice,  the 
maid,  to  whom  Mrs.  Conway  gave  a  lesson  in  deport- 
ment and  general  behaviour  as  she  collected  cups 
and  plates  on  to  a  tray,  not  without  considerable 
clatter. 

"  In  a  house  like  this,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  who  was 
now  seated  in  the  chair  by  the  work-basket,  fitting  a 
stocking  on  to  a  sort  of  wooden  tennis  ball  prepar- 
atory to  darning  it,  "  the  natural  thing  would  be  for 
a  butler  to  do  the  work  that  you  have  to  do;  or  a 
butler  and  a  footman ;  or  even  two  footmen.  Mr.  Con- 
way  and  I  once  stayed  in  a  house  where  there  were 

three  footmen,  as  well  as However,  that  is  not  the 

point.  You  must  take  a  pride  in  your  work,  and  do 
it  as  well  as  you  can.  Never  come  in  with  your  sleeves 
rolled  up,  as  you  did  just  now;  and  never  hand  a  tele- 
gram, or  a  letter,  or  anything,  except  on  a  salver." 

"  Well,  mum,  I'm  sure  I'm  doing  my  best,"  said 
Alice  good-humouredly.  "  But  there's  such  a  lot  of 
work  to  get  through  that  sometimes  I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  standing  on  my  'ead  or  my  'eels." 

"  I  am  quite  aware  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
work  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  Work  is  a  good 
thing  for  all  of  us,  and  you  see  that  I  am  working 
myself,  at  this  very  moment.  You  wouldn't  see  the 
mistress  of  many  houses  like  this  darning  stockings — 
from  preference.  However,  that  is  not  the  point.  You 
must  do  your  work  with  system.  You  will  do  twice 
as  much  with  system  as  without." 

"  She  doesn't  want  to  do  twice  as  much  work,"  said 
Penelope,  from  the  depths  of  another  shabby  easy 
chair  opposite  to  her  mother's.  "  What  she  likes  do- 


21 

ing  is  to  read  penny  novelettes.  I  counted  fourteen 
in  her  bedroom  yesterday." 

"  No  keeping  nothing  from  Miss  Poke  and  Pry," 
said  Alice  with  admirable  equability  as  she  went  out 
with  the  tray. 

"  You  should  not  talk  of  the  servants  in  that  way 
when  they  are  present,  Penelope,"  said  Mrs.  Conway. 
"  It  gives  them  an  excuse  for  being  impertinent.  I 
have  enough  difficulty  with  them  as  it  is,  and  my  little 
girl  must  not  add  to  it.  What  were  you  doing  in 
Alice's  bedroom?  " 

"  Counting  her  penny  novelettes.  Mother,  why  have 
none  of  us  ever  set  eyes  on  Uncle  Mark  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conway's  lip  stiffened.  "  You  heard  what 
your  father  said  about  that,"  she  replied.  "  I  may 
have  wished  that  you  should  all  know  the  facts  of  the 
case;  but  if  he  thinks  differently,  so  be  it.  I  must 
keep  silence. 

"  Uncle  Mark  is  a  great  swell,  isn't  he?  " 

"  You  must  not  use  such  words  as  that,  Penelope 
darling.  They  are  not  at  all  pretty  coming  from  lit- 
tle girls.  Uncle  Mark  was  a  Cabinet  Minister.  That 
is  to  say,  when  gentlemen  came  together  in  Parliament 
to  make  the  laws  he  was  one  of  their  leaders.  It  was 
a  very  honourable  position,  and  I  am  far  from  saying 
that  he  was  not  competent  to  fill  it,  although  it  is  true 
that  he  was  turned  out  of  his  seat  in  Parliament 
shortly  after  father  married  mother,  and  has  remained 
out  ever  since." 

"  Was  it  because  father  married  you  that  Uncle 
Mark  wouldn't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  put  her  work  down  on  her  lap.    "  And 


22  WATERMEADS 

pray  who  has  told  you  a  wicked  thing  like  that  ?  "  she 
asked  indignantly.  "  Really,  I  sometimes  think  there 
are  no  limits  to  the  things  that  are  said  in  this  house 
before  an  innocent  child.  You  are  too  young,  darling, 
to  see  how  disagreeable  it  is  for  mother  to  have  a 
speech  like  that  made  to  her.  I  do  not  blame  you  so 
much  as  those  who  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head; 
but  you  are  old  enough  now,  darling,  to  be  more  care- 
ful of  your  words." 

Old  enough  or  young  enough,  Penelope  waited 
with  sharp-eyed  eagerness  for  an  answer  to  her 
question. 

"  You  wouldn't  think  that  father  could  be  made  hap- 
pier than  by  marrying  mother,  would  you,  mother's 
pet  ?  "  enquired  Mrs.  Conway. 

"  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  be  here  if  you  and  father 
hadn't  been  married,"  said  Penelope. 

Mrs.  Conway,  under  pretence  of  blowing  her  nose, 
deposited  her  work  in  the  basket,  and  under  cover  of 
it  took  up  a  set  of  ivory  tablets  hanging  from  her 
waist  and  wrote  on  it,  while  she  essayed  at  the  same 
time  to  continue  the  conversation.  "  You  wouldn't 
like — to  have  had — shouldn't  be  here — I  mean " 

"  Put  down  what  I  said  first,  mother,"  said  Pe- 
nelope. "  You  can't  talk  and  write  at  the  same  time." 

Mrs.  Conway,  abashed  by  this  speech,  dropped  her 
tablets,  and  took  up  her  work  again.  "  I  never  can 
remember  to  order  the  methylated,"  she  said,  with 
transparent  duplicity. 

Penelope  persisted  in  her  inquisition.  "  Did  Uncle 
Mark  want  father  to  marry  somebody  else  ?  " 

Mrs.   Conway  settled  herself  more   comfortably  in 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  23 

her  chair.  "  When  father  was  a  young  man,"'  she 
said,  "  living  here  at  Watermeads  with  Grandfather 
Conway,  mother  was  living  at  the  Vicarage  with 
Grandfather  Diblee,  who  was  Vicar  here,  just  as  Mr. 
Bonner  is  now." 

"  You  were  a  good  deal  older  than  Dad,  weren't 
you,  mother?  " 

"  Now  who  told  you  that  ?  It  is  not  true.  We  were 
nearly  the  same  age,  but  while  father  was  always  old 
for  his  years  mother  was  generally  thought  to  be 
younger  than  she  was.  I  remember  very  well  at  our 
wedding  that  Lord  Bridlington,  who  was  present,  as 
you  will  see  some  day  when  I  show  you  what  was  writ- 
ten in  the  newspapers  about  it — it  was  a  quiet  wed- 
ding, but  there  were  a  good  many  titled  people  pres- 
ent, friends  of  both  bride  and  bridegroom,  although 
Uncle  Mark  preferred  to  be  absent,  and  I  must  say, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  that  he  was  very  little 
missed." 

"  What  did  Lord  Bridlington  say?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  that,  darling.  When  you  are  a 
little  older  you  will  understand  better  that  elderly 
gentlemen  who  are  looked  up  to  a  good  deal  in  the 
world  are  permitted  to  say  things  that  would  not 
be  becoming  in  other  people." 

"  Well,  tell  me  about  Uncle  Mark.  Didn't  he  adopt 
father?" 

"  No.  Uncle  Mark  was  the  brother  of  Grand- 
mother Conway,  who  died  when  father  was  a  baby. 
You  must  always  remember,  Penelope  darling,  when 
you  grow  older,  if  there  are  sometimes  things  that 
you  cannot  quite  understand  about  father,  that  he 


24  WATERMEADS 

never  knew  a  mpther's  love.  Think  what  a  difference  it 
would  make  to  my  little  girl  if  mother  had  died  before 
she  was  old  enough  ever  to  know  her !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  Uncle  Mark,"  said  Penelope. 

**  I  am  telling  you,  darling.  He  used  to  come  here 
when  Grandfather  Conway  was  alive,  and  I  often  saw 
him;  for  Grandfather  Diblee  and  I  were  at  Water- 
meads  a  great  deal ;  it  was  almost  like  a  second  home 
to  me.  And  I  never  liked  Mr.  Drake,  as  of  course 
we  always  used  to  call  him  then." 

"Did  he  like  you?" 

"  As  it  turned  out  afterwards,  unaccountably  not ; 
though  I  always  treated  him  respectfully,  and  without 
showing  that  I  did  not  like  him.  In  fact,  I  was  care- 
ful to  hide  my  dislike,  and  took  pains  to  engage  him 
in  conversation  whenever  I  had  the  opportunity." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  what  he  didn't  like." 

"  Perhaps  it  was ;  there  is  no  telling.  You  may  do 
all  you  can  to  please  some  people,  and  you  will  never 
please  them.  But  one  would  have  thought  that  the 
conversation  of  a  young  and  modest  girl,  anxious  to 
improve  her  mind  and  to  hear  the  other  side  in  pol- 
itics— for  Uncle  Mark  was  what  is  called  a  Liberal, 
while  Grandfather  Diblee  and  I  were  strong  Conserv- 
atives— would  not  have  displeased  even  a  President  of 
the  Board  of  Trade!  But  that  is  not  the  point. 
When  Grandfather  Conway  died,  Uncle  Mark  became 
father's  guardian,  as  it  is  called,  and  until  father  came 
of  age  he  lived  with  him  in  London,  and  for  some  years 
afterwards,  while  Watermeads  was  let.  He  was  sec- 
retary to  Uncle  Mark,  who — I  will  do  him  that  amount 
of  justice — was  fond  of  father,  and  thought  highly  of 


PAST  AND  PRESENT  25 

his  abilities,  and  wished  him  to  enter  Parliament,  as 
he  had  done  himself,  and  to  get  on." 

"Why  didn't  father?" 

"  Why  didn't  father  what?  " 

"Get  on." 

Mrs.  Conway  sighed  deeply.  "  We  must  never 
blame  father  for  any  mistakes  he  may  have  made," 
she  said.  "  His  abilities  might  have  carried  him  far, 
although  he  often  says  himself  that  in  his  youth  he 
was  more  fond  of  pleasure  than  of  hard  work.  If  he 
had  consented  to  go  on  letting  Watermeads  for  a  time, 
and  gone  on  with  his  work  in  London,  we  should  most 
likely  not  have  been  in  the  position  we  occupy  today, 
living  in  a  big  house  with  not  enough  money  to  live 
as  we  ought  to  live.  In  mother's  old  home  with  Grand- 
father Diblee,  simple  as  it  was However,  that  is 

not  the  point.  We  must  not  complain.  Father  is  head 
of  the  family,  and  it  is  our  duty  to  bear  cheerfully 
whatever  he  chooses  to  prepare  for  us." 

"  But  I  thought  Uncle  Mark  wouldn't  let  father 
go  on  being  his  secretary  if  he  married  you,  mother." 

Mrs.  Conway  laid  down  her  work.  "  I  must  insist, 
Penelope,  on  knowing  who  has  told  you  these  tales," 
she  said.  "  Somebody  seems  to  have  taken  a  delight 
in  filling  your  poor  little  head  with  any  story  that 
would  reflect  discredit  on  your  mother.  I  say  that  it 
is  a  very  wicked  thing  to  do,  and  if  I  find  it  goes  any 
further  I  shall  take  strong  measures  to  stop  it.  Now 
who  was  it  told  you  that?  " 

"  You  did,  mother.     Isn't  it  true?  " 

"  It  is  true  that  Uncle  Mark  behaved  in  a  most 
reprehensible  way  throughout.  I  have  sometimes 


26  WATERMEADS 

thought  that  he  could  not  have  been  quite  in  posses- 
sion of  his  senses  at  the  time;  and  perhaps  that  is 
the  kindest  way  to  look  at  it.  But  when  did  I  tell 
you  such  a  thing  as  that?  " 

"  Oh,  often.  But  you  have  never  told  me  what  he 
said,  and  why  he  didn't  want  father  to  marry  you." 

"  You  have  been  told  quite  as  much  as  is  suitable  for 
a  little  girl  to  know.  And  I  will  not  have  you  discuss- 
ing it  with  the  others.  Now  do  you  quite  understand 
that,  Penelope?  Because  if  you  disobey  me  I  shall  be 
very  displeased.  Facts  are  put  to  you  in  a  wrong  light, 
and  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  think  it,  but  it  looks  as 
if  there  must  be  somebody  who  takes  a  pleasure  in 
putting  them  in  a  way  to  make  them  reflect  against 
mother.  I  do  not  ask  who  it  is.  I  would  rather  not 
know." 

Penelope  said  she  thought  she.  had  better  go  and 
practise.  She  played  three  bars  on  the  schoolroom 
piano  and  then  went  into  the  garden  to  find  Elsie  and 
Rose. 


CHAPTER     III 

SOME  FRIENDS 

ELSIE  and  Rose  had  begun  by  discussing  the  very 
point  that  Penelope  had  set  herself  for  the  hundredth 
time  to  elucidate. 

"  What  was  it  that  Uncle  Mark  said  about  mother  ? 
I'd  give  anything  to  know,"  said  Elsie. 

"  We  should  have  got  it  out  at  last,  if  father  hadn't 
stopped  her,"  said  Rose. 

"  Oh,  no,  we  shouldn't.  We  should  have  had  the 
old  story  all  over  again.  It  would  have  been  made  quite 
plain  that  he  made  an  unholy  row  about  father  mar- 
rying mother,  and  the  kindest  thing  to  say  was  that 
he  was  unaccountable  for  his  actions." 

"  I  think  it  is  awfully  sweet  of  Dad  to  want  it  not 
to  be  talked  about  at  all.  He  quarrelled  with  Uncle 
Mark  because  he  was  rude  about  mother,  and  he  has 
been  getting  poorer  and  poorer  ever  since.  But  he 
never  brings  it  up  against  her." 

"  It  would  be  rather  horrid  of  him  if  he  did," 

Rose  reflected.  "  I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  said.  "  She 
brings  up  everything  against  him.  Poor  old  Micawber ! 
I  wish  he  could  have  a  bit  of  luck." 

"  If  he  doesn't,  we  shan't  be  able  to  go  on  living  at 
Watermeads." 

"  Oh,  something  will  turn  up.  There's  always  Uncle 
Mark  in  the  background.  He  is  as  rich  as  he  can 
be,  and  father  is  his  only  near  relation." 

27 


28  WATERMEADS 

"Father  hasn't  seen  him  for  twenty-five  years." 

"  I  know.  But  that's  because  he's  too  proud  to  tahe 
the  first  step.  Oh,  I'm  sure  Uncle  Mark  must  see  by 
this  time  what  a  good  sort  father  is;  and  in  the  long 
run  he'll  make  it  up  with  him." 

"  Elsie  laughed.  "  You're  as  sanguine  as  Dad," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  think  you've  much  to  go  on  with 
Uncle  Mark — after  twenty-five  years." 

"  Well,  there's  Freddy.  Freddy  loves  Watermeads 
as  much  as  father  does,  and  all  of  us.  If  he  makes 
his  fortune  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  it  will  be  just  the 
same  as  if  Dad  had  made  the  money.  We  shall  all 
go  on  living  here,  and  we  shall  live  like  other  people, 
instead  of  in  the  way  we  do." 

"  Somehow  I  don't  see  Freddy  making  his  fortune 
on  the  Stock  Exchange.  He  is  just  like  Dad — not  a 
bit  cut  out  for  business." 

"  Cousin  Henry  *  is  going  to  make  him  a  partner. 
He  makes  a  lot  of  money,  and  I  suppose  Freddy  will 
have  half  of  it  when  he  is  a  partner.  It's  awfully 
lucky  for  him  that  Uncle  Henry  only  has  girls,  and  no 
boy  to  put  into  his  business.  Freddy  is  lucky.  He 
won  that  Derby  Sweepstake.  He's  awfully  sweet  too. 
He'd  have  given  all  the  money  to  us,  if  Dad  had  let 
him.  I  believe  that  Freddy's  good  luck  will  make  up 
for  Dad's  bad  luck." 

"  If  he  gets  on  he  may  want  to  get  married,  and 
come  and  live  here." 

"  He  couldn't  live  here  if  he  had  to  work  in  Lon- 
don. Besides,  he  wouldn't  want  to  turn  us  out." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  marry  an  heiress.  He  is  very 
good  looking." 


SOME  FRIENDS  29 

"  He  might  fall  in  love  with  someone,  and  find  she 
was  an  heiress  afterwards.  That  would  be  the  best 
thing  that  could  happen." 

"  Why  are  we  always  talking  about  money?  "  asked 
Rose. 

"  Because  we  haven't  got  any.  But  I'm  not  sure 
we  don't  have  as  much  fun  as  if  we  had.  You  know 
how  bored  Hilda  Bradley  gets ;  she  hates  living  in  the 
country  all  the  year  round.  We  don't  get  bored,  be- 
cause we  have  plenty  to  do." 

"  I  do  get  bored  sometimes,  with  making  beds  and 
dusting,  and  lots  of  things  that  servants  generally  do." 

Elsie  looked  at  her  affectionately.  "  Poor 
darling !  "  she  said.  "  Of  course  you  oughtn't  to  have 
to  do  that  sort  of  thing;  you're  much  too  pretty." 

Rose  blushed.  "  I'm  not  nearly  so  pretty  as  you 
think  I  am,"  she  said ;  and  added  with  a  smile :  "  But 
I  like  you  to  think  it  all  the  same." 

There  was  a  little  story  behind  this — or  the  begin- 
nings of  one;  but  the  sisters  did  not  talk  about  it,  al- 
though they  talked  about  everything  else  between 
themselves. 

"  I  should  like  to  do  some  real  work — like  boys 
can,"  said  Rose.  "  It  must  be  fun,  trying  hard,  and 
making  your  way." 

Elsie  laughed  again.  "  That's  what  Dad  is  always 
talking  about,"  she  said.  "  But  he  doesn't  do  much. 
You  wouldn't  do  much  either.  Neither  of  us  is  any 
good  at  the  things  girls  do  do,  to  get  on — like  music 
or  painting.  We're  rather  clever  at  house  work  be- 
cause we've  got  to  be.  But  neither  of  us  could  make 
a  penny  if  we  tried." 


30  WATERMEADS 

"  It  isn't  a  very  bright  look-out." 

"  We  need  not  look  out,  very  far.  "  We're  happy 
enough,  living  here  at  Watermeads;  and  if  we're  go- 
ing to  get  our  allowance  paid  up  now,  I  don't  know 
that  we  want  much  more  for  the  present." 

"  We  all  make  a  sort  of  religion  of  Watermeads." 

"  Well,  it  is  the  nicest  place  in  the  world,  and  we 
all  know  it  is.  We've  picked  enough  now.  Let's  take 
these  in.  Then  we  can  go  and  meet  Dad." 

They  went  with  their  baskets  through  the  untidy 
kitchen  garden,  which  provided  the  house  with  a 
large  proportion  of  the  food  consumed  in  it.  Other- 
wise it  would  have  been  more  neglected  than  it  was, 
for  there  had  long  ceased  to  be  any  attempt  to  keep 
up  anything  that  was  not  of  stern  service  in  support- 
ing its  owners.  The  old  red  brick  walls  surrounding 
it  were  crumbling  in  places,  and  one  corner  was  gap- 
ing, and  would  soon  fall  if  not  repaired.  The  fruit 
trees  trained  on  them  were  only  here  and  there  pruned 
and  netted.  The  currants  and  raspberries  from  which 
the  girls  had  been  picking  were  not  protected  from  the 
depredations  of  birds.  Stakes  and  nets  had  long  since 
rotted  and  not  been  replaced.  The  strawberry  beds 
had  not  been  replanted  for  years,  nor  the  asparagus 
beds  salted.  Docks  grew  profusely  in  corners,  and 
weeds  were  plentiful  everywhere.  The  kitchen  garden, 
divided  into  two  by  its  high  walls,  covered  an  acre  of 
ground,  and  was  too  much  for  one  man  to  look  after, 
who  with  the  help  of  a  boy  had  to  do  everything  that 
wanted  doing  outside,  including  tinkering  repairs  to 
the  structure  of  the  house,  feeding  of  chickens  and 


SOME  FRIENDS  31 

pigs,  cutting  of  wood,  as  well  as  the  internal  duties  of 
*  boots,  coals  and  knives.' 

But,  meagrely  tended  as  it  was,  the  kitchen  garden 
was  the  best  ordered  of  all  that  lay  immediately  around 
the  house.  The  girls  passed  through  an  enclosure  full 
of  greenhouses,  forcing-pits,  tool  and  potting  sheds, 
where  everything  was  in  the  last  stage  of  dilapidation 
— glass  broken,  woodwork  perishing  for  lack  of  paint, 
doors  off  their  hinges,  rubbish  accumulated  everywhere. 
The  great  stable  yard  next  to  it  was  overgrown  with 
grass.  The  once  gilded  hands  of  the  turret  clock, 
which  had  at  some  remote  date  stopped  at  the  de- 
jected hour  of  twenty  minutes  past  seven,  looked  as 
if  they  would  never  have  the  energy  to  raise  them- 
selves again.  Tiles  had  fallen  from  the  roofs,  and  lay 
where  they  had  fallen.  The  very  pump  had  gone  out 
of  business.  But  pigeons  were  sunning  themselves  on 
the  roof,  and  in  the  soft  afternoon  sunshine  the  effect 
was  not  so  much  of  desolation  as  of  mellow  tranquil- 
lity. 

They  deposited  their  baskets  of  fruit  in  the  great 
stone-flagged  kitchen,  where  the  fat  cook  blessed  their 
bonny  faces  and  said  she  was  glad  to  hear  that  there 
would  be  a  bit  of  money  to  spend  now.  If  Mrs.  Con- 
way  was  considered  something  of  a  scourge  by  the 
servants  of  the  house,  the  rest  of  the  family  was 
adored  by  them,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Pe- 
nelope, who  was  considered  to  be  precociously  *  taking 
after  her  ma.'  There  was  an  amount  of  friendliness 
between  them  and  the  servants  quite  unusual  in  large 
houses.  Sydney  Conway  had  more  than  '  a  pleasant 
word '  for  them  whenever  he  met  them ;  he  was  in  and 


32  WATERMEADS 

out  of  their  quarters  almost  as  much  as  his  own,  and 
could  often  be  seen  sitting  on  one  of  the  kitchen 
tables  enjoying  a  lively  and  lengthy  conservation  with 
the  cook,  who  did  not  hesitate  on  occasions  to  send 
him  about  his  business  on  the  score  of  interruption  of 
her  work.  This  and  other  similar  habits  of  his  caused 
Mrs.  Conway  infinite  annoyance,  which  she  sometimes 
expressed  strongly.  If  he  made  himself  so  free,  how 
could  he  expect  to  gain  the  respect  of  the  servants? 
It  is  doubtful  whether  respect  was  the  strongest  arti- 
cle of  their  attitude  towards  him,  but  they  never  wor- 
ried him  for  their  wages  when  they  were  overdue,  nor 
showed  any  desire  to  take  service  where  they  could  get 
them  paid  more  regularly.  The  cook,  indeed,  was  a 
remnant  of  easier  times — a  forty  pound  a  year  artist, 
now  reduced  to  twenty-five.  She  had  come  to  Water- 
meads  immediately  after  Fred's  birth,  and  had  had  a 
kitchen  maid  under  her,  as  well  as  the  agreeable  so- 
ciety of  seven  or  eight  other  indoor  servants,  besides 
men  in  the  stables  and  gardens.  So  her  devotion  was 
well  proved.  Fred  was  the  apple  of  her  eye.  After 
him  came  Rose,  because  of  her  beauty,  but  she  loved 
Elsie  hardly  less.  Upon  Bobby  and  Billy  she  ex- 
ercised her  tongue,  and  sometimes  her  hand;  but 
they  could  always  get  what  they  wanted  from  her. 
On  her  reduced  and  precarious  wages  she  was 
perhaps  the  happiest  person  in  the  house.  She 
liked  the  freedom  of  her  lot.  In  her  noble  kitchen 
she  reigned  supreme,  and  it  was  as  much  a  centre 
of  intelligence  and  discussion  as  the  great  hall, 
or  the  parlour  which  the  Conways  chiefly  inhabited  in 
the  winter.  She  had  had  nothing  like  the  position  she 


SOME  FRIENDS  33 

now  enjoyed  when  she  had  been  surrounded  by  a  staff 
of  servants,  and  the  two  parts  of  the  house  had  kept 
apart.  The  only  disquietude  in  her  life  was  that  Pe- 
nelope, whom  she  had  adored  as  a  baby,  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her  petting.  That  small  minx 
could  get  what  she  wanted  from  her  without  the  ne- 
cessity of  making  any  return  of  affection.  The  fat 
.tender-hearted  woman  was  her  devoted  slave.  She  was 
often  made  very  unhappy  when  she  had  taken  pains  to 
please  the  small  tyrant  and  was  refused  the  reward  of 
a  caress.  She  would  go  about  quite  miserable,  but 
the  smallest  sign  of  relenting  on  Penelope's  part  would 
bind  the  chains  on  her  still  further.  She  had  some 
warmth  of  feeling  even  for  Mrs.  Conway,  who  would 
sometimes  make  a  confidante  of  her.  She  admired  her 
mistress's  stateliness,  and  regretted  for  her  sake  that  it 
could  not  be  exercised  in  more  elaborate  surroundings. 

:<  Well,  if  you're  not  as  pink  and  sweet  as  a  rasp- 
berry yourself !  "  she  said,  beaming  on  Rose  as  she  re- 
ceived the  basket  from  her.  "  We  shan't  keep  you  at 
home,  my  pretty,  I'll  be  bound ;  and  now  you'll  be  able 
to  get  yourself  some  nice  clothes,  and  we  shall  see 
what  we  shall  see." 

"  You  silly  old  woman,"  said  Rose,  half  turning 
from  her  with  a  blush.  "  You'll  see  nothing  except 
what  you've  always  seen.  Come  along,  Elsie,  we'll  go 
and  meet  Dad." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  deceive  me,"  said  the  cook,  with  an 
arch  smile,  as  the  girls  went  out.  "  If  Master  Fred's 
coming  home,  there'll  be  somebody  else  too;  and  it 
won't  be  for  Master  Fred  he'll  be  coming  over." 

Elsie   looked    at   Rose   as    they   went   through   the 


34  WATERMEADS 

sunny  yard.  The  ice  once  broken  in  this  way,  it 
might  be  hoped  that  Rose  would  say  something  at 
last. 

Rose  looked  down  with  a  half-vexed  smile,  and  then 
said :  "  Of  course  she  means  Jack  Kirby,  but  it's  too 
silly.  He's  always  been  Fred's  friend,  and  never  comes 
here  except  when  Fred's  at  home." 

Jack  Kirby  was  the  only  son  of  Lord  Kirby,  a  lately 
ennobled  ship-owner  who  had  bought  Prittlewell  Hall, 
about  five  miles  from  Watermeads,  in  the  previous 
autumn.  He  had  been  at  Cambridge  with  Fred  Con- 
way.  Elsie  might  have  said  in  answer  to  Rose  that  the 
Kirbys  had  only  occupied  their  new  house  for  the  first 
time  at  Easter;  that  during  the  short  vacation  Jack 
had  been  over  to  see  Fred  a  good  deal  more  often  than 
friendship  demanded;  that  the  same  thing  had  hap- 
pened at  Whitsuntide;  and  that  otherwise  neither  of 
the  young  men  had  been  in  the  country. 

But  she  jumped  those  obvious  stages.  "  Oh,  I'm 
sure  he  does  like  you,  darling,"  she  said,  slipping  her 
arm  into  Rose's.  "  And  I  don't  wonder  at  it ;  you 
are  so  awfully  sweet.  Any  young  man  would." 

Rose  was  accustomed  to  Elsie's  openly  expressed 
admiration.  She  acknowledged  it  by  a  squeeze  of  the 
arm  in  hers.  "  He  must  think  we're  a  very  funny 
household,"  she  said.  "  Elsie,  supposing  he  did  come 
here  because — oh,  well,  because  of  me " 

;<  Yes?  "  said  Elsie,  as  she  paused. 

"  I  mean  we're  so  different  from  them,  with  all  their 
money  and  luxury  and  everything." 

Elsie  understood  her.  "  We  shall  both  be  all  right 
now  we  can  have  a  few  new  clothes,"  she  said.  "  Noth- 


SOME  FRIENDS  35 

ing  else  really  matters;  nobody's  ashamed  of  being 
poor  nowadays." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  that  they  don't  rather  look  down 
upon  us  because  we're  poor — and  have  to  show  it  so 
plainly,"  Rose  said.  "  Even  he  rather  makes  a  boast 
of  his  money.  Fred  says  so." 

"  Fred  likes  him,  though." 

"  He  told  me  that  he  had  never  known  him  very 
well  at  Cambridge.  He  was  rather  surprised  at  his 
making  such  a  friend  of  him  now.  He  thought  it  was 
because  they  were  new,  and  we're  old,  although  we're 
so  poor." 

Elsie  laughed.  "  Men  never  see  anything,"  she  said. 
"  Fred  said  he  splashed  his  money  about  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  suppose  it  must  be  rather  jolly  to  feel 
you've  got  a  lot  to  spend,  especially  when  you're 
young." 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  suppose  it's  only  that.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  think  he's  purse-proud.  I  shouldn't  like  him 
at  all  if  he  were.  Of  course  I  do  like  him;  he's  so 
cheerful  and  friendly ;  and  there  aren't  so  many  peo- 
ple who  take  the  trouble  to  come  over  and  see  us 
now.  You  like  him  too,  and  he  likes  you.  It  isn't 
only  me  that  he  likes." 

"  Talking  about  Jack  Kirby,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Penelope,  appearing  from  behind  a  large  bush  of 
syringa.  "  They're  all  coming  down  on  Friday.  Mor- 
ris told  me." 

The  two  girls  set  upon  her  and  rent  her  with  scorn 
for  an  eavesdropping  little  cat.  She  received  their 
censure  unmoved.  "  Morris  says  they  are  going  to 
have  a  large  party  at  Prittlewell,"  she  said. 


36  WATERMEADS 

Morris  was  the  postman,  whose  radius  included  both 
Prittlewell  and  Watermeads,  and  who  carried  gossip 
as  well  as  letters  and  parcels.  The  news  that 
Penelope  had  obtained  from  him  was  allowed  to 
outbalance  her  offence,  when  she  had  been  duly 
chidden. 

"  If  any  of  them  do  come  over  here,  I  should  like 
to  have  something  decent  to  wear — something  that 
everybody  hasn't  seen  before,"  said  Rose. 

The  possibility  was  discussed  until  Penelope  grew 
tired  of  it.  "  Who  will  play  tennis  with  me  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  We're  going  to  find  Dad,"  said  Elsie.  "  Neither 
of  us  wants  to  play  tennis ;  it's  too  hot." 

"  I  want  to  play,"  Penelope  persisted.  "  Mother 
said  one  of  you  were  to." 

"  Did  she  say  that  this  evening? "  asked  Rose. 
They  were  accustomed  to  Penelope's  ways. 

"  She  said  you  were  always  ready  to  play  with  one 
another,  and  you  were  to  play  sometimes  with  me; 
and  I  want  to  play  now." 

"  Well,  we're  not  going  to  play.  Now  go  back  and 
get  us  into  a  row  with  mother." 

;'  Yes,  I  shall,"  said  Penelope  calmly,  and  walked 
away  from  them. 

"  Really  she  gets  worse  every  day,"  said  Rose,  but 
with  no  particular  signs  of  annoyance.  "  I  wonder 
what  other  people  would  think  of  her,  if  we  ever  saw 
people  for  any  length  of  time.  She's  all  right  when 
they're  just  visitors." 

"She's  a  horrid  child,"  said  Elsie,  with  the  same 
equability.  "But  what  can  you  expect?" 


SOME  FRIENDS  37 

The  subject  dropped.  This  was  about  as  near  as 
they  ever  came  to  criticism  of  their  mother. 

They  went  out  through  a  gate  leading  from  the  shrub- 
bery into  the  open  park,  which  still  contained  some 
fine  trees,  although  not  a  few  had  been  cut  down  and 
sold  for  their  timber.  Sydney  Conway  had  devoted 
much  energy  of  mind  to  preserving  those  which,  either 
singly  or  in  groups,  would  make  the  others  less  missed. 
They  came  to  the  gently  gliding  river,  and  presently 
to  a  bridge,  over  which  ran  a  path  to  the  village. 
The  bridge  was  masked  from  the  path  leading  from 
the  house  by  a  group  of  trees,  and  when  they  came  to 
it  they  saw  their  old  friend  the  Vicar  crossing  it  to- 
wards them,  and  a  little  farther  on  the  bank  a  com- 
paratively new  friend  in  the  person  of  an  artist  seated 
at  his  easel.  The  Vicar's  name  was  Bonner,  and  the 
artist's  Bellamy. 

The  Vicar's  face  lighted  up  when  he  saw  the  two 
girls.  He  was  an  elderly  man,  with  the  scholar's  stoop 
on  his  thin  shoulders,  and  a  singularly  sweet  expres- 
sion of  face.  "  Well,  my  dears,"  he  said,  "  this  is 
well  met.  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  see  how  Mr.  Bel- 
lamy is  getting  on  with  his  picture.  Now  we  can  go 
and  look  at  it  all  together.  What's  the  news  about 
the  other  picture?  " 

They  told  him  what  the  Raeburn  had  fetched. 
"  Well,  I  hoped  it  would  fetch  more,  but  didn't  expect 
it  to  fetch  so  much,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  follow  these 
modern  prices." 

"  The  boys  will  be  able  to  go  to  school  now,"  said 
Elsie. 

*'  Yes ;   it   has    always    been    ear-marked    for    that, 


38  WATERMEADS 

hasn't  it?  Well,  I've  got  the  young  scamps  ready. 
I  think  they'll  do  us  credit." 

The  girls  were  walking  on  either  side  of  him  with 
their  arms  in  his.  They  had  always  loved  him  dearly 
s.ince  their  childhood.  Now  both  of  them  gave  him  a 
simultaneous  squeeze  of  affection.  They  knew  well 
enough  what  a  good  friend  he  had  shown  himself.  In 
a  thousand  little  ways  he  had  eased  the  burden  of 
poverty  as  it  affected  their  own  lives,  and  in  the  mat- 
ter of  Bobby  and  Billy  he  had  done  a  very  big  thing. 
For  some  years  he  had  devoted  himself,  quietly  and 
steadily,  to  educating  them  without  any  reward  but 
that  of  friendship  and  good  conscience.  He  had  set 
aside  long  and  regular  hours  for  them,  giving  up  much 
of  his  own  loved  work  to  take  up  again  the  drudgery 
of  schoolmastering.  The  boys,  and  he  with  them,  had 
had  their  regular  holidays.  Otherwise  lesson  hours 
had  been  inviolate.  And  a  greater  achievement  even 
than  this  long-continued  sacrifice  of  valuable  time  had 
been  that  it  had  been  made  to  be  felt  not  as  a  burden- 
some benefit  but  as  an  act  of  friendship,  giving  as 
much  pleasure  to  the  one  side  as  to  the  other.  No 
wonder  that  the  girls  loved  their  old  friend,  and  he 
them! 

There  was  no  time  for  further  conversation  between 
them  before  they  reached  the  artist  on  the  river  bank. 
He  rose  from  his  stool  to  greet  them  as  they  came 
up.  He  was  a  tall  rather  grave-looking  man,  not  very 
young  but  not  yet  middle-aged,  though  with  his  fair 
closely-clipped  beard  he  may  have  appeared  so  to  mod- 
ern eyes.  He  had  been  staying  in  one  of  the  pic- 
turesque cottages  in  the  village  for  about  a  month, 


SOME  FRIENDS  39 

spending  most  of  his  days  painting,  but  apparently 
ready,  though  not  anxious,  for  whatever  mild  social 
intercourse  was  open  to  him  in  the  intervals.  The 
Vicar  had  made  friends  with  him,  and  had  taken  him 
to  Watermeads,  where  he  had  gradually  come  to  be 
accepted  as  an  unobtrusive  guest  whom  it  was  agree- 
able but  not  very  exciting  to  see.  He  talked  little, 
but  seemed  to  have  the  gift  of  companionable  silence, 
as  no-one  felt  either  bored  or  awkward  in  his  pres- 
ence. The  girls  liked  him,  but  did  not  discuss  him 
much.  Mrs.  Conway  unbent  before  him,  and  was  in 
process  of  finding  him  a  sympathetic  listener,  as  she 
poured  out  to  him  more  and  more  of  the  rich  store  of 
her  memory.  He  would  sit  and  look  at  her  with  in- 
scrutable eyes  as  she  talked,  and  leave  her  with  the 
impression  that  he  had  talked  a  good  deal  too,  though 
he  may  have  uttered  no  more  than  monosyllables. 
Sydney  Conway  discussed  art  with  him,  in  which  he 
was  interested,  as  in  most  things,  and  he  listened  to 
him  too,  but  did  not  entirely  withold  his  speech  or 
ideas  in  return.  For  Sydney  Conway  was  a  clever  fel- 
low, with  ideas  of  his  own,  and  there  lingered  with  him 
a  youthful  enthusiasm  that  was  one  of  his  most  at- 
tractive qualities.  And,  finally,  the  precocious  and 
watchful  Penelope  was  on  the  look-out  for  signs  of  in- 
terest in  him  towards  either  Elsie  or  Rose,  but  par- 
ticularly Rose,  and  had  as  yet  found  none. 

Bellamy's  picture,  now  nearing  completion,  of  the 
old  stone  bridge,  with  the  placid  stream  flowing  under 
its  arches,  and  the  willows  and  poplars  beyond,  was 
duly  appraised,  while  he  stood  by  with  his  palette  on 
his  arm  and  said  nothing.  But  it  was  a  beautiful 


40  WATERMEADS 

picture,  and  he  must  have  known  it.  Then,  after  a 
few  words  of  general  conversation,  he  said  that  he 
had  nearly  finished  for  the  evening,  and  would  walk 
with  them  to  Sandford  Hole. 

He  walked  with  Elsie.  She  told  him  about  the  price 
that  the  Raeburn  had  fetched  and  what  was  to  be 
done  with  the  money.  The  financial  shifts  to  which 
the  Conway  family  had  been  reduced  of  late  years 
seemed  to  all  of  them  a  natural  subject  for  conver- 
sation with  their  friends,  and  Bellamy  had  already 
come  to  be  regarded  as  a  friend. 

He  looked  down  at  her  from  his  height  of  over  six 
feet  with  a  smile  that  made  his  somewhat  plain  face 
pleasant  enough.  "  I  like  Bobby  and  Billy,"  he  said 
kindly.  "  I'm  glad  they  are  going  to  a  good  school." 

"Were  you  at  Charterhouse?"  she  asked  him. 

"  No,"  he  said,  but  did  not  tell  her  where  he  had 
been  at  school.  He  had  never  told  any  of  them  any- 
thing about  himself,  which  made  it  all  the  more  re- 
markable that  they  were  so  ready  to  tell  him  every- 
thing. Elsie  prattled  on  to  him,  and  he  listened  to 
her  and  made  an  occasional  remark,  until  they  reached 
Sandford  Hole,  where  they  became  merged  in  the 
larger  group. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Vicar  had  given  Rose  a  piece 
of  news.  "  Olivia  is  coming  home,"  he  said.  "  She 
has  been  too  long  away  from  her  old  father.  But 
what  changes  I  shall  have  to  make  in  my  bachelor 
ways,  Rose ! " 

Rose  expressed  warm  pleasure.  "  It  will  make  a 
lot  of  difference  to  us,"  she  said.  "  We  have  always 
missed  Olivia,  Elsie  and  I,  and  it  is  nearly  three  years 


SOME  FRIENDS  41 

since  we  have  seen  her.  How  could  you  have  done 
without  her  for  so  long?  " 

"  Well,  I  have  missed  her  too.  Perhaps  I  couldn't 
have  done  without  her  if  I  hadn't  been  to  Italy  to  see 
her  twice  in  the  meantime.  But  her  aunt  has  not  been 
able  to  do  without  her  either.  I  couldn't  get  her  back 
before,  much  as  I  wanted  her." 

"  How  is  it  that  her  aunt  can  do  without  her  now  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  whimsical  expression. 
"  Aunts  are  curious  beings,"  he  said.  "  This  partic- 
ular one  has  recovered  her  health,  and  it  seems  to  have 
had  the  effect  of  diminishing  her  desire  for  Olivia's 
society.  But  if  she  doesn't  want  the  dear  child  any 
longer,  I  do;  and  this  time  I  shall  hope  to  keep  her 
for  a  bit." 

"  We  all  want  her,"  said  Rose.  "  I  suppose  she  is 
very  beautiful  now.  She  always  was,  but  she  wasn't 
grown  up  when  she  went  away  the  last  time." 

"  I  think  she  is  beautiful,"  said  the  Vicar  simply. 


CHAPTER   IV 

AN  EVENING  DRIVE 

THE  dynamic  accessories  of  Watermeads  had  been  re- 
duced to  a  donkey  and  a  governess  cart,  which  would 
hold  two  with  some  approach  to  comfort  and  four  with 
a  still  nearer  approach  to  anguish.  But  the  donkey 
refused  to  trot  with  more  than  two,  and  was  seldom 
called  upon  to  carry  the  full  load.  But  it  was  a  good 
donkey  when  its  whims  were  considered,  and  trotted 
along  gaily  enough  with  Elsie  and  Rose  as  they  drove 
to  the  station  on  Friday  evening  to  meet  Fred. 

The  perfect  June  weather  still  held.  The  beautiful 
country  around  Watermeads  was  deliciously  soothing 
to  the  spirit  on  this  still  and  dewy  evening,  and  the 
two  girls,  who  seldom  moved  away  from  it  from  one 
year's  end  to  the  other,  and  would  have  welcomed  a 
change  to  more  crowded  surroundings,  felt  its  influ- 
ence and  expressed  their  pleasure  in  it.  They  drove 
down  through  the  park,  with  its  soft  rich  grass  and 
its  handsome  groups  of  trees,  and  out  into  the  village 
past  a  handsome  stone-built  lodge,  the  state  of  repair 
of  which  gave  no  indication  of  the  dilapidated  state 
of  much  that  it  ostensibly  guarded.  But  it  was  no 
longer  inhabited  by  a  lodge-keeper.  It  had  been  done 
up  and  let  as  a  week-end  cottage  to  a  tradesman  from 
the  neighbouring  town  of  Sherbrook.  As  a  conse- 
quence, there  was  no  one  to  deal  with  the  handsome 

42 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  43 

iron  gates  which  it  flanked,  and  these  had  been  for  so 
long  left  hospitably  open  that  it  would  have  been  a 
difficult  matter  to  close  them.  The  general  effect  of 
the  handsome  entrance  was  somewhat  marred  by  a 
row  of  hurdles  stretching  across  it  to  keep  the  cattle 
from  making  journeys  of  investigation  into  the  village 
street.  In  such  matters  as  these  the  Squire  of  Water- 
meads  was  blissfully  undisturbed  at  his  poverty  be- 
ing made  apparent,  but  Mrs.  Conway  never  used  this 
exit  if  she  could  possibly  help  it.  There  were  others 
less  handsome  but  less  marred. 

The  two  hurdles  in  the  middle  were  easily  movable, 
and  the  sight  was  not  unknown  to  the  village  of  an 
elaborately  accoutred  footman  opening  them  to  admit 
of  an  equipage  belonging  to  richer  neighbours.  The 
removal  of  one  of  these  by  Rose  enabled  Elsie  to  drive 
the  donkey  through,  and  neither  of  the  girls  felt  any 
more  shame  at  the  necessity  than  their  father  would 
have  done — not  even  when  a  great  raking  varnished 
coroneted  car  passed  them  as  they  were  making  their 
way  through.  There  was  a  wave  from  the  car  as  it 
hummed  past  them.  It  was  on  its  way  to  Prittlewell 
from  Sherbrook,  where  the  fast  train  from  London 
stopped.  Fred  would  come  on  by  the  slow  one  which 
served  the  branch  line.  The  Kirbys  might  have  given 
him  a  lift,  said  Elsie,  but  Rose  was  glad  that  they 
hadn't;  it  would  have  meant  missing  the  drive  and  the 
pleasant  saunter  home,  during  which  Fred  would  tell 
them  about  everything. 

The  village,  which  was  grouped  chiefly  about  the 
east  gate,  was  no  more  than  a  straggling  row  of  very 
picturesque  cottages  flanked  by  an  equally  picturesque 


44  WATERMEADS 

inn.  There  were  some  little  shops,  only  one  of  which 
gave  itself  the  slightest  air  of  importance,  the  others 
mostly  displaying  their  wares  behind  the  small-paned 
windows  of  ground-floor  rooms.  In  this  rich  month 
of  June  walls  were  covered  with  roses  and  gardens 
ablaze  with  homely  flowers.  The  road  ran  straight 
between  the  cottages  on  one  side  and  the  wall  of  the 
park  on  the  other.  Trees  had  been  left  to  grow  tall 
at  this  point,  and  the  tower  of  the  church  showed  be- 
yond them  some  distance  down  the  road.  The  village 
of  Watermeads,  in  the  past  no  more  than  an  appanage 
of  the  great  house,  was  as  pretty  a  one  as  could 
be  found  anywhere  in  England,  and  was  always  being 
painted  by  artists,  who  also  found  innumerable  sub- 
jects in  the  pleasant  water-meadows  that  surrounded 
it,  and  in  the  more  hilly  and  wooded  scenery  into  which 
the  flat  country  soon  changed  on  either  side. 

After  the  village  came  an  old  Jacobean  farmhouse, 
snugly  and  solidly  facing  the  high  road,  with  its  ac- 
companiment of  yards  and  mellow  out-buildings,  gar- 
dens, orchards  and  horse-pond.  Haymaking  was  go- 
ing on  in  the  wide  fields  that  stretched  on  the  further 
side  of  it;  the  scent  of  the  hay  was  delicious;  the 
voices  of  the  haymakers  at  some  distance  off  alone 
broke  the  perfect  silence  of  the  dewy  evening. 

The  river  was  crossed  by  another  old  stone  bridge, 
alongside  of  which  was  a  water-mill  with  cottage  and 
garden  attached.  The  mill  was  built  of  tarred 
weather-boarding,  with  a  red  tiled  roof,  and  was  shad- 
owed by  a  group  of  tall  poplars.  This  was  another 
beaut}'  spot  much  affected  by  artists. 

Here  the  Watermeads  property  ended.     The  road 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  45 

began  to  rise,  and  soon  entered  a  noble  beech-wood, 
which  continued  for  a  mile  until  it  gave  place  to  a 
sandy  heath.  A  further  dip  revealed  the  village  of 
Sailsby,  two  and  a  half  miles  from  Watermeads,  and 
the  nearest  point  to  it  on  the  line. 

The  greeting  between  brother  and  sisters  showed  an 
affection  and  mutual  interest  pleasant  enough  to  see. 
Fred  Conway  was  what  would  have  been  called  in  past 
days  a  very  personable  young  man.  He  was  better 
looking  than  his  father,  but  had  the  same  amiability 
of  expression,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  same  ap- 
parent absence  of  driving  force.  He  was  of  medium 
height,  but  slim  and  muscular.  He,  as  well  as  his 
father,  had  been  in  the  Charterhouse  Eleven,  and  had 
been  near  to  getting  his  *  blue '  at  Cambridge.  He 
was  one  of  those  young  men  to  whom  life,  and  es- 
pecially English  life,  holds  out  innumerable  pleasures, 
provided  there  is  a  sufficiency  of  money  and  leisure. 
With  the  opportunities  of  his  friend  Jack  Kirby,  Fred 
would  have  been  a  highly  popular  member  of  society, 
and  could  have  filled  the  golden  days  of  his  youth  as 
richly  as  any  of  his  contemporaries.  At  school  he  had 
not  felt  the  lack  of  opportunity,  and  very  little  at 
Cambridge,  where,  however,  the  comparative  meagre- 
ness  of  his  allowance  had  deprived  him  of  some  of  the 
social  pleasures  he  would  have  been  fitted  to  enjoy. 
He  had  since  had  a  good  opportunity  given  to  him  of 
making  his  way,  and  even,  if  he  could  take  advantage 
of  it,  of  repairing  the  broken  fortunes  of  his  house. 
But  it  provided  him  at  present  with  no  more  than  sub- 
sistence, and  he  was  cut  off  from  many  of  the  pleas- 
ures that  his  father  had  enjoyed  in  his  youth,  and 


46  WATERMEADS 

that  would  have  been  his  right  as  heir  to  Watermeads, 
if  Watermeads  had  been  a  support  instead  of  a  bur- 
den. 

The  cousin  of  his  mother's  who  had  taken  him  into 
his  office  was  a  rich  man,  but  had  made  himself  so,  and 
had  lived  contentedly  all  his  married  life  in  a  London 
suburb,  first  in  a  small  house,  and  then  in  a  large  one. 
He  provided  Fred  with  a  salary  which  enabled  him 
to  live  comfortably  enough  in  two  rooms  in  the  same 
suburb,  but  to  take  very  few  of  his  pleasures  outside 
of  it.  The  salary  was  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds 
a  year,  which  Mr.  Wilkins  considered  very  handsome 
for  a  clerk  just  learning  his  work,  as  indeed  it  was. 
Out  of  this,  Fred  had  to  keep  himself  entirely,  and  did 
so  without  getting  into  debt.  He  had  never  got  into 
debt  at  Cambridge  either,  which  perhaps  betokened 
more  force  of  character  than  his  ready  amiability  gave 
warrant  for.  But  it  was  of  the  same  quality  as  the  gen- 
eral family  readiness  to  accept  poverty  without  think- 
ing of  it.  Sydney  Conway  would  never  have  got  into 
debt  either,  if  Watermeads  had  not  hung  like  a  mill- 
stone round  his  neck.  As  it  was,  he  did  without  every- 
thing that  could  possibly  be  done  without,  and  if  the 
time  should  come  when  a  crash  could  not  be  averted,  it 
would  leave  him  solvent,  though  denuded  of  his  be- 
loved Watermeads. 

Fred  showed  no  inclination  to  grumble  at  his  lot, 
and  indeed  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  grumble  at,  ex- 
cept in  comparison  with  what  a  young  man  of  his 
birth  and  education  might  have  demanded.  Hillstead 
was  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  the  old  fashioned  London 
suburbs,  with  plenty  of  large  houses  and  large  gar- 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  47 

dens,  in  which  an  unattached  young  man  could  amuse 
himself  with  whatever  hospitality  in  the  way  of  din- 
ners and  dances  and  tennis-playing  might  be  offered 
to  him.  Fred  found  no  lack  of  amusement  or  compan- 
ionship for  his  hours  and  days  of  leisure,  and  was 
fortunate  in  finding  them  in  the  place  in  which  he 
lived,  where  they  cost  him  nothing  in  return.  But  he 
was  cut  off  from  London  gaieties,  from  week-end  coun- 
try visits,  from  the  sociability  of  good  cricket,  and 
indeed  from  everything  that  would  have  taken  him  into 
a  wider  world  than  that  in  which  he  lived  at  Hillstead. 
He  had  to  be  careful  of  every  penny.  He  hardly  ever 
used  the  club  to  which  he  had  been  elected  at  the  age 
of  twenty-one,  nor  lunched  with  his  school  and  Cam- 
bridge friends  in  the  City;  for  his  own  lunch  he  had 
to  be  content  with  a  tea-shop.  Occasionally  he  went 
to  the  pit  of  a  theatre.  Clothes  were  an  anxiety,  but 
he  did  manage  to  produce  the  effect  of  being  well 
dressed  on  a  very  small  expenditure  indeed. 

Looked  at  squarely,  the  deprivations  suffered  by  this 
agreeable  young  man  were  nothing  at  all  in  compari- 
son with  the  advantages  he  gained  from  having  to 
live  on  a  small  income,  and  doing  it,  without  getting 
into  debt.  His  character  was  braced,  and  none  of 
the  pleasures  he  did  enjoy  carried  with  them  any  re- 
action. He  was  practising  the  difficult  art  of  doing 
without,  which  is  an  important  part  of  the  whole  diffi- 
cult art  of  living.  That  he  had  a  gift  for  the  lesser 
as  well  as  for  the  greater  art  was  part  of  his  family 
inheritance. 

Fred's  kit-bag  was  put  into  the  donkey-cart,  which 
Rose  drove,  while  he  and  Elsie  walked  one  on  either 


48  WATERMEADS 

side  of  her.  The  Kirbys  had  offered  him  a  lift  in  theii 
motor-car,  but  he  had  refused  it  because  he  liked  bet- 
ter going  home  in  this  way.  When  he  told  his  sisters 
this,  they  felt  that  sense  of  grateful  confidence  in  him 
which  is  one  of  the  sweetest  fruits  of  family  affection. 
The  Kirbys,  with  the  wealth  that  enfolded  them  like 
a  garment,  were  still  something  of  an  excitement  to 
the  Conway  family.  It  would  have  been  quite  natural 
that  Fred  should  have  accepted  their  invitation  to 
drop  him  at  the  gates  of  Watermeads  an  hour  or 
more  before  he  would  otherwise  have  got  there.  But 
his  sisters  were  more  to  him  than  the  Kirbys,  and  the 
pleasure  of  this  makeshift  home-coming  in  their  com- 
pany more  than  the  opulent  progression  offered  to 
him. 

They  were  soon  deep  in  intimate  converse.  With 
his  working  hours  spent  in  the  City  and  his  leisure 
time  in  a  London  suburb,  Fred  yet  represented  the 
great  world  to  these  country  home-keeping  girls,  and 
they  wanted  to  know  all  about  it.  But  for  the  com- 
plete sympathy  between  them,  he  might  have  had  lit- 
tle of  any  interest  to  tell.  But  their  interest  was  in 
him  and  his  doings,  and  no  detail  was  too  small  to 
hold  their  attention  or  to  set  their  imagination  work- 
ing. 

It  was  Cousin  Henry  first  of  all — a  somewhat  enig- 
matic figure  that  took  on  a  slightly  new  aspect  every 
time  that  Fred  came  home  and  told  them  about  him. 
Two  years  before  he  had  brought  his  wife  and  four 
young  daughters  to  Watermeads  for  a  summer  holiday 
—as  paying  guests.  The  experiment  had  not  been  a 
brilliant  success.  Mrs.  Conway  and  Mrs.  Wilkins  had 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  49 

not  *  hit  it  off ' ;  the  four  children  had  missed  the  de- 
lights of  their  usual  seaside  holiday  and  been  heavy 
in  hand.  Cousin  Henry  had  presented  a  ponderous 
cigar-smoking  newspaper-reading  figure  not  without 
alleviating  points.  Except  when  he  had  been  active 
over  excursions,  on  which  he  had  expended  much 
money  on  the  hire  of  motor-cars,  his  chief  occupation 
had  been  to  sit  about;  but  he  had  always  been  ready 
to  talk  kindly,  if  not  very  entertainingly,  to  any  mem- 
ber of  the  Conway  family  who  chose  to  keep  him 
company.  He  had  prevented  an  open  breach  between 
his  wife  and  Mrs.  Conway,  and  had  even  made  himself 
liked  by  Mrs.  Conway,  who  had  been  able  to  express 
herself  to  him  without  producing  those  manifest  signs 
of  boredom  that  were  the  frequent  result  of  her  con- 
versations with  outsiders.  He  had  always  been 
anxious  to  include  a  young  Conway — more  than  one 
was  not  possible  unless  a  young  Wilkins  was  to  be 
left  behind — in  the  excursions,  and  had  proffered 
golden  and  tactful  solace  for  his  final  withdrawal  from 
Watermeads.  If,  in  his  habits  and  appearance,  he 
was  totally  unlike  the  country  gentlemen  who  repre- 
sented well-endowed  middle  age  to  the  Conway  family, 
there  were  yet  points  of  contact.  He  bulked  as  a 
rather  mild  kindly  personage,  with  curious  ways  that 
set  him  apart  but  did  not  make  him  the  less  likable. 
And  he  had  kept  up  the  connection,  which  his  wife 
and  children  had  taken  no  trouble  to  do.  More  gold 
had  watered  the  aridness  of  the  two  successive  Christ- 
mases — not  thrown  at  its  recipients  from  a  height  of 
patronage,  but  accompanied  by  kindly  little  messages, 
written  in  a  clerky  hand  on  business  stationery,  which 


50  WATERMEADS 

gave  it  exactly  the  right  quality  of  gratification.  A 
year  ago  he  had  come  forward  and  given  Fred  his 
chance — another  golden  one,  which  had  seemed  to  the 
eager  hopeful  family  to  hold  out  infinite  possibilities. 
Decidedly,  Cousin  Henry  had  justified  his  cousinship, 
and  could  be  looked  upon,  in  spite  of  his  unfamiliar 
habits,  as  one  of  the  elect. 

But  the  picture  had  had  to  be  adjusted,  as  Fred 
had  thrown  successive  new  lights  upon  it.  Cousin 
Henry,  in  the  City,  was  not  exactly  the  pliant  figure 
he  had  appeared  to  be  at  Watermeads.  He  was  known 
in  his  office  as  *  a  Tartar,'  and  Fred  had  not  alto- 
gether escaped  uneasy  contact  with  him.  He  had  re- 
lated little  incidents  which  had  made  the  girls  wonder 
that  they  had  felt  so  much  at  ease  with  Cousin  Henry, 
*  if  he  was  really  like  that.'  Fred  had  been  able  to 
adapt  himself  to  a  new  view  of  authority,  which  is 
so  tempered  to  the  undergraduate  that  it  seems  hardly 
like  authority  at  all.  But  to  Elsie  and  Rose  it  seemed 
that,  in  exacting  from  him  in  all  respects  the  be- 
haviour of  a  clerk,  Cousin  Henry  was  too  apt  to  for- 
get that  Fred  was  also  a  gentleman.  It  threw  some 
doubts  upon  his  own  claim  to  gentility,  for  which  the 
ground  was  already  prepared  by  his  dissimilarity 
from  type. 

They  might  have  adjusted  themselves  to  the  unfa- 
miliar ways  of  *  offices  '  as  exemplified  by  Fred's  ex- 
perience; it  was  Cousin  Henry's  behaviour  to  him  out 
of  business  hours  that  they  found  it  hard  to  under- 
stand. In  his  large  comfortable  villa  *  Lawnside,'  Fred 
was  expected  to  present  himself  at  regular  intervals, 
and  was  treated  as  one  of  the  family,  to  the  extent 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  51 

of  never  being  allowed  to  feel  that  his  presence  made 
any  difference  to  anybody.  Few  other  young  people 
ever  went  to  the  house,  except  friends  of  the  girls, 
who  were  not  yet  quite  grown  up,  in  the  daytime.  The 
Wilkinses  were  great  dinner  givers.  Once  a  month 
or  so  there  would  be  an  elaborate  crowded  table,  at 
which  such  of  the  inhabitants  of  Hillstead  as  had 
welcomed  them  to  their  own  tables  would  sit  down  to 
feast;  but  Fred  was  never  invited  to  these  solemn  as- 
stmblies.  That  omission,  at  first  unaccountable,  had 
been  forgiven.  Fred  had  explained  the  ritual  of  these 
entertainments  as  it  was  practised  in  houses  like 
*  Lawnside.'  Sociability  was  only  an  incident  in  it.  It 
was  chiefly  give  and  take.  Young  people  were  outside 
the  sacred  circle.  There  were  houses  in  Hillstead  at 
which  he  dined  in  the  same  way  as  he  dined  at  houses 
around  Watermeads,  and  sometimes  in  London,  as  a 
guest  as  welcome  as  any  other ;  but  *  Lawnside  '  was  not 
one  of  them.  Perhaps  it  would  come  to  be  so  when 
the  girls  should  arrive  at  an  age  at  which  other  young 
people  would  be  invited  for  their  sakes. 

But  when  all  allowances  had  come  to  be  made  for 
the  difference  of  social  habit  between  Cousin  Henry's 
life  and  that  of  the  circles  to  which  the  Conways  still 
belonged,  there  remained  a  feeling  that  he  did  not 
treat  Fred  as  he  ought  to  have  treated  him.  Surely, 
when  Fred  had  done  the  work  required  of  him  Cousin 
Henry  should  have  left  him  free  to  go  his  own  way! 
But  he  didn't.  He  was  continually  overlooking  and 
interfering  with  him.  It  seemed  that  unless  he  could 
reduce  him  to  the  common  measure  of  other  young 
clerks,  with  a  future  before  them,  and  no  past  that  in- 


52  WATERMEADS 

eluded  such  accidents  as  a  university  education,  he 
would  never  get  him  at  all  to  his  liking.  He  must 
*  stick  to  business  ' — time  enough  to  amuse  himself 
when  he  had  shown  what  he  was  made  of,  and  had 
money  at  his  command.  Sticking  to  business  in  this 
connection  meant  a  very  rigid  allowance  of  holiday, 
not  to  be  adapted  to  any  call  from  outside,  in  the  way 
that  all  Fred's  previously  made  friends  who  were  at 
work  in  *  offices  '  could  more  or  less  adapt  them.  But 
this  was  not  all.  It  almost  seemed  that  Cousin  Henry 
was  jealous  of  every  circumstance  attached  to  Fred 
that  had  not  been  attached  to  himself  at  the  same  age. 
He  was  certainly  contemptuous,  if  not  jealous,  of 
Fred's  three  years  at  Cambridge.  If  he  had  wasted 
his  own  time  in  that  way,  he  said,  he  would  not  have 
been  in  a  position  to  marry  at  Fred's  age,  and  head 
of  a  solid  and  increasing  business  a  year  or  two  later. 
He  disliked  mention  of  cricket.  Cricket  was  a  game 
to  be  played  on  Saturday  afternoons  and  bank  holi- 
days, in  places  like  Hillstead.  This  had  been  fully 
explained  in  the  early  days  of  Fred's  clerkship,  when 
he  had  asked  to  be  allowed  to  anticipate  three  days 
of  his  coming  holiday  to  play  in  the  Meadshire  County 
Eleven.  Fred  laughed  now  at  his  innocence  in  having 
ever  thought  of  making  such  a  request.  He  had  a 
suspicion  that  Cousin  Henry  was  jealous  of  the  dis- 
tinction that  clung  to  him  as  the  heir  of  Watermeads, 
although  he  was  doing  what  he  could  to  make  that 
heirship  no  mere  empty  title.  He  never  spoke  of  it 
except  as  a  burden,  and  would  frequently  compare  his 
own  lot  with  that  of  Fred's  father.  "  I  remember 
very  well  what  was  thought  among  us,"  he  would  say, 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  53 

"  when  your  mother  married  your  father.  It  was  con- 
sidered a  great  step  up.  County  gentleman;  fine 
estate;  and  all  that.  I  was  only  a  boy  of  seventeen 
then,  but  I'd  been  working  for  two  years,  and  al- 
ready had  money  laid  by.  I  don't  suppose  your  father 
would  have  thought  I  was  worth  looking  at  then.  But 
look  at  us  both  now!  Well,  it  isn't  for  me  to  say — 
but — you  stick  to  business,  my  boy.  It  will  put  you 
wherever  you  want  to  be  quicker  than  anything  else. 
Why,  if  it  suited  me,  I  could  live  in  a  house  like  Water- 
meads,  and  keep  it  up  as  well  as  anybody.  But  it 
doesn't  suit  me.  That's  why  I  don't  do  it.  I'm  as 
good  here  as  anybody,  and  I've  no  wish  to  go  out  of 
my  class.  It's  a  mistake,  7  say." 

Thus  Cousin  Henry,  in  a  Sunday  after-dinner  mood, 
strolling  round  the  garden  of  '  Lawnside  '  with  a  cigar, 
or  sitting  before  the  fire  in  the  dining  room  in  his 
gentleman's  easy  chair.  It  had  seemed  to  come  out 
by  degrees  that  some  memory  of  his  holiday  at  Water- 
meads  had  slightly  rankled  in  his  mind.  He  had  felt 
differences,  and  wished  to  entrench  himself  in  his 
opulent  respectability  against  any  feeling  of  inferior- 
ity. It  was  another  light  on  him,  discussed  with  in- 
terest whenever  Fred  brought  home  any  new  material 
for  reckoning  him  up. 

The  net  result  had  not  yet  been  arrived  at.  Against 
the  items  that  weighed  in  Cousin  Henry's  disfavour 
had  to  be  put  the  far  more  important  ones  of  his 
having  given  Fred  his  golden  chance,  and  of  having 
provided  him  with  an  income  upon  which  he  could  at 
least  live  in  comfort.  Fred  knew  enough  now  to  tell 
them  that  the  income  was  worth  more  than  his  value 


54  WATERMEADS 

as  a  clerk,  and  also  that  the  partnership  that  had  been 
held  out  to  him  as  the  goal  of  his  efforts  would  be 
worth  much  money  in  Cousin  Henry's  pocket,  if  he 
chose  to  bargain  with  it  elsewhere.  These  were  big 
things  in  his  favour;  but  small  things  are  apt  to  out- 
weigh big  ones  in  such  connection  as  this,  and  even  the 
big  ones  were  not  quite  free  from  suspicion.  Why 
had  Cousin  Henry,  in  view  of  all  that  was  tiresome 
in  his  behaviour,  held  out  to  Fred  his  golden  chance? 
No  quite  satisfactory  answer  to  that  question  had  yet 
been  found.  But  it  was  constantly  being  asked. 

So  it  was  Cousin  Henry  who  came  first  into  the  con- 
versation when  the  brother  and  sisters  set  out  on  their 
pleasant  evening  walk. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

FRED  had  shown  himself  extremely  cheerful  on  getting 
out  of  the  train  and  greeting  them,  but  his  face  fell 
a  little  when  Rose  asked  him  how  Cousin  Henry  had 
been  behaving.  "  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said.  "  Well,  no, 
not  quite  all  right.  But  I'll  tell  you  about  him  later. 
There's  something  else  to  tell  you — two  things.  Oh, 
I'm  full  of  news  this  time."  He  suddenly  smiled  radi- 
antly, and  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  Rose's,  as  it 
lay  on  the  side  of  the  cart. 

"  Well,  the  first  thing  is  I've  made  friends  with 
Uncle  Mark,"  he  said. 

This  was  news  indeed,  and  invoked  lively  expres- 
sions of  surprise  and  deep  interest.  Fred  had  dined 
two  evenings  before  at  Lord  Kirby's  great  house  in 
Berkeley  Square — a  semi-political  men's  dinner,  to 
which  his  friend  Jack  had  got  him  invited  *  to  take 
the  edge  off  the  old  buffers.'  One  of  the  old  buffers 
had  been  the  Right  Honourable  Mark  Drake,  who,  in 
spite  of  his  long  absence  from  the  House  of  Commons, 
was  still  in  the  counsels  of  his  party,  and  was  much 
valued  as  a  dinner  guest  for  his  amusing  and  caustic 
speech. 

"  I  didn't  know  who  he  was  until  halfway  through 
dinner,"  Fred  told  his  story.  "  Jack  and  I  and  one  or 
two  secretaries  and  younger  fellows  were  at  the  bot- 

55 


56  WATERMEADS 

torn  of  the  table,  and  he  was  up  at  the  top,  keeping 
them  all  pretty  happy.  He's  rather  a  fine-looking  old 
boy,  better  than  that  photograph  father  has  of  him. 
He's  thin  and  tall,  with  a  white  pointed  beard.  He 
never  laughs  himself  when  he  says  something  good; 
but  everybody  else  does.  They  were  in  fits  of  laughter 
sometimes  all  round  him,  and  he  was  talking  away  as 
grave  as  a  judge,  telling  them  a  story,  I  suppose. 
Jack  didn't  know  who  he  was  when  I  asked  him,  but 
Ronny  Greenwell — fellow  who  played  cricket  for  Ox- 
ford when  I  was  up — who  snooped  a  seat  for  them  last 
election — he  told  me  it  was  Mark  Drake. 

"  Well,  I  thought  it  would  be  rather  jolly  to  get  to 
know  him,  but  I  knew  there  wasn't  any  chance  unless 
I  got  old  Kirby  or  somebody  to  introduce  me.  I 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  or  not.  What 
would  you  have  done  about  it  ?  " 

The  interpolated  question  showed  many  things,  most 
of  them  nice  ones,  about  Fred,  and  about  his  attitude 
to  his  sisters. 

"  Oh,  of  course  you  had  to  get  to  know  him,"  Elsie 
answered  it.  "  He'd  be  sure  to  like  you  when  you 
did."  Which  was  rather  nice  of  her  too. 

"  Well,  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  risk  it.  He  couldn't 
bite  my  head  off.  But  I  didn't  have  to  do  anything. 
He  was  sitting  next  to  old  Kirby,  and  I  suppose  he 
told  him  about  buying  Prittlewell;  and  he  must  have 
said  he  knew  it,  and  Watermeads,  and  us ;  and  then 
old  Kirby  must  have  remembered  that  I  was  there, 
and  pointed  me  out  to  him.  That's  how  I  worked  it 
out  afterwards.  Anyhow,  when  I  was  looking  at  him 
I  saw  old  Kirby  point  me  out,  and  after  dinner  he  in- 


THE  ELDEST  SON  57 

troduced  me  to  him.  He  must  have  asked  him  to,  I 
should  think." 

"  What  did  he  say?    Was  he  nice  to  you?  " 

"  He  said :  *  I  thought  I  was  about  thirty  years 
younger  when  I  first  saw  you  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table.'  That  was  the  first  thing  he  said  when  he'd 
shaken  hands,  looking  at  me  quite  solemnly,  but  with  a 
sort  of  pucker  round  his  eyes." 

"  What  did  he  mean?  "  asked  Rose,  as  Fred  paused. 

He  laughed.  "  I  wanted  to  see  whether  you'd  twig 
it,"  he  said.  "  I  did,  fortunately.  Do  you  know  what 
he  meant,  Elsie?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course  he  meant  you  were  so  like  Dad," 
said  Elsie.  "  You  are  sometimes." 

"  Yes,  that  was  it,"  said  Fred,  with  a  shade  ot  dis- 
appointment. "  I  suppose  it's  easy  enough  to  see  now, 
but  when  I  was  feeling  a  trifle  nervous — and  old 
Kirby  does  you  jolly  well  when  you  dine  with  him  too 
— well,  I  had  to  tumble  to  it  at  once.  But  you  know 
there  were  about  forty  people  dining,  and  I  hadn't 
seen  him  throw  a  look  at  our  end  of  the  table  before 
Kirby  pointed  me  out.  I  call  it  pretty  good  of  him  to 
have  spotted  me  like  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Elsie.     "  What  did  you  say  to  him?  " 

"  I  said :  '  I  suppose  father  often  used  to  dine  out 
with  you  when  he  was  your  secretary.'  That  was  the 
right  thing  to  say,  wasn't  it?  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing better  for  the  moment." 

"  It  was  perfectly  brilliant,  darling,"  said  Elsie. 
"What  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"  I  think  he  was  pleased  that  I'd  taken  him  up  so 
quickly.  He  asked  me  how  Dad  was,  and  said  he 


58  WATERMEADS 

hadn't  seen  much  of  him  lately,  but  he'd  been  busy 
writing  letters  and  doing  other  little  jobs." 

"  But,  Fred !  It  is  over  twenty-five  years  since  he 
would  have  anything  to  do  with  father."  It  was  Rose 
who  spoke,  in  wide-eyed  astonishment.  Elsie  only 
laughed. 

"  I  know,"  said  Fred,  "  but  I  saw  he  was  only  rag- 
ging, though  he  looked  as  solemn  as  an  owl.  I  said: 
*  When  you've  finished  your  letters,  I  know  he'll  be 
jolly  pleased  to  see  you  again.  He's  told  us  a  lot 
about  you.' ': 

"  Really,  Fred  dear,  that  was  rather  brilliant,"  said 
Elsie. 

"  Well,  you  see,  old  Kirby  does  you  jolly  well,  and 
I  was  feeling  so  comfortable  inside  that  I  didn't  care 
a  damn.  Besides,  I  felt  a  sort  of  kindly  feeling  to- 
wards him.  You  know.  I  liked  the  look  of  him  and 
his  way  of  saying  things;  and  after  all,  he's  our  only 
relation  on  the  Conway  side.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  egg  if  we  could  make  friends." 

"Well?    And  did  you?" 

"  I  think  so.  I'm  not  quite  sure.  He  was  looking 
at  me  all  the  time  we  were  talking — it  wasn't  very 
long — and  I  thought  he  liked  me  all  right.  But  sud- 
denly he  said :  *  Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  met  you,' 
and  turned  his  back  on  me  and  talked  to  somebody 
else.  I  didn't  speak  to  him  again,  and  he  didn't  take 
any  more  notice  of  me — didn't  even  look  at  me  or  say 
goodbye  when  he  went  away." 

'  That's  rather  disconcerting,"  said  Elsie.  "  Per- 
haps you  said  something  that  annoyed  him.  What  did 
you  talk  about?  " 


THE  ELDEST  SON  59 

"  Oh,  about  cricket  a  little.  He'd  asked  me  whether 
I'd  had  any  education,  and  I  told  him  I'd  been  at 
Charterhouse  and  Trinity.  I  thought  he  seemed 
rather  bucked  at  that.  He  was  at  Trinity  himself, 
oh,  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  I  said  I  thought  he 
would  see  some  changes  if  he  went  there  now." 

"  That  wasn't  quite  so  brilliant,  Freddy  dear." 

"  No,  perhaps  not,  but  I  had  to  keep  it  rolling.  He 
seemed  to  expect  me  to  do  most  of  the  talking.  He 
did  talk  a  bit  about  cricket  though.  He  used  to  play, 
and  watches  matches  now.  He  said  he  hadn't  noticed 
my  name  anywhere,  and  I  said  I'd  played  once  or 
twice  for  the  County,  but  couldn't  do  it  much  now  as 
I  was  tied  by  the  leg  in  the  City." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  about  Cousin  Henry?  " 

"  Yes,  I  said  he'd  taken  me  into  his  office,  and  he 
said  'Who  the  devil's  Cousin  Henry?'  I'd  forgotten 
for  the  moment  that  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
him.  I  said  he  was  Mr.  Wilkins,  a  cousin  of 
mother's." 

"  Oh,  Fred !  "    This  from  Rose. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  was  quite  right,  don't  you,  Elsie? 
We  can't  chuck  mother  over  to  please  him." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Rose  hastily,  and 
the  others  refrained  from  asking  her  what  she  had 
meant. 

"  Of  course  you  are  right,"  said  Elsie.  "  Was  that 
when  he  turned  his  back  on  you — when  you  told  him 
that?" 

"  No.  He  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  City,  and  I 
said  I  liked  it  all  right,  and  was  lucky  to  have  the 
chance  I  had.  I  thought  I  ought  to  say  something  of 


60  WATERMEADS 

that  sort  because  of  Cousin  Henry.  After  all,  he's 
never  done  anything  to  give  us  a  leg  up,  and  he  could 
if  he'd  wanted  to." 

"  You  didn't  tell  him  that,  I  suppose?  "  from  Elsie. 

"  No.  But  he  changed  the  subject  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  said:  'I  see  your  father's  just  sold  another  pic- 
ture ; '  and  I  said :  '  Yes,  he  had  to  do  it  to  send  my 
two  young  brothers  to  school.  He  sold  one  to  send 
me  to  school,  and  another  to  send  me  to  Cambridge.' 
He  could  make  what  he  liked  of  that.  I  expect  he 
saw  it  right  enough." 

"  What  did  he  look  like  when  you  told  him  that? 
Did  he  say  anything?  " 

"  He  didn't  look  anything  particular.  He  said : 
*  Are  your  two  young  brothers  like  you,  or  are  you 
the  bright  flower  of  the  flock  ?  '  I  saw  he  only  wanted 
to  pull  my  leg.  I  said :  *  They've  got  a  few  more  brains 
than  I  have.  If  they  get  my  chances  I  expect  they'll 
make  more  of  them  than  I  did.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  duffer 
at  books,  but  I'm  a  sticker.  So  are  they.'  I  didn't 
want  him  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  I  thought  my- 
self clever,  though  I  was  standing  up  to  him  pretty 
well.  It  was  then  that  he  seemed  to  feel  he'd  had 
enough  of  me  for  the  present.  He  turned  round,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it." 

It  was  an  end  that  did  not  seem  to  hold  out  promise 
of  much  further  intercourse  between  the  Right  Hon- 
ourable Mark  Drake  and  his  great-nephew.  After 
some  discussion  the  subject  was  postponed  for  further 
consideration  at  home. 

"  Now  tell  us  about  Cousin  Henry,"  said  Elsie. 
"  But  first  of  all  what  is  your  other  piece  of  news?" 


THE  ELDEST  SON  61 

Fred  smiled  a  sudden  happy  smile.  "  I'll  tell  you 
that  last,"  he  said.  His  face  fell  again.  "  I  believe 
Cousin  Henry  wants  to  shift  me,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Fred !  "  from  both  girls  at  once. 

"  I'm  sure  I've  stuck  to  it  as  well  as  I  know  how. 
But  he's  always  grumbling.  He  told  me  the  other  day 
that  I  had  less  aptitude  for  business  than  any  clerk 
he's  ever  had  in  his  office.  He  said  I  knew  just  about 
as  much  after  a  year  as  when  I'd  come  in." 

"  He  really  is  rather  awful — the  things  he  says," 
said  Rose. 

"  I  was  annoyed.  He's  been  grumbling  at  me  for 
weeks  about  all  sorts  of  silly  little  notions — outside 
the  office  chiefly.  I  hate  going  to  his  house  now, 
though  Aunt  Kate's  always  pleased  to  see  me,  and  I 
like  the  girls;  they're  not  so  bad  when  you  get  to 
know  them.  What  he  really  hates  is  my  being  any 
different  from  him.  He  did  this  and  that  when  he  was 
my  age,  and  why  can't  I  do  the  same?  Ever  since  he 
knew  I  was  going  to  dine  with  the  Kirbys',  he's  been 
talking  about  people  who  like  lords,  and  don't  think 
ordinary  people  good  enough  for  them.  I've  tried  to 
make  a  joke  of  it,  but  it's  jolly  difficult  to  keep  it 
up,  when  you  can  see  it  isn't  really  a  joke  with  him." 

"  We  never  thought  he  was  like  that  when  he  was  at 
Watermeads,"  said  Rose.  This  was  the  stock  remark 
when  any  new  vagary  of  Cousin  Henry's  was  dis- 
closed. 

"  It's  his  little  particular  weakness  coming  out," 
said  Elsie.  "  What  did  you  say  to  him,  Fred,  when 
he  complained  about  your  work?  " 

"  He  didn't  exactly  complain  about  it.     I've  done 


62  WATERMEADS 

the  work  all  right.  I've  taken  pains  about  it,  and 
there's  a  lot  to  learn.  I  said :  *  You're  always  finding 
fault  with  me,  Cousin  Henry;  but  I've  put  my  back 
into  it  all  the  same,  and  I  think  I've  got  the  hang 
of  the  work  of  the  office.'  He  said :  *  Any  Board 
School  boy  with  ordinary  brains  could  get  that,  in  a 
year.  But  you're  a  University  man,  you  know.  We 
expect  rather  more  from  them  than  from  Board  School 
boys;  and  we  don't  get  it.'  That's  the  sort  of  thing. 
It's  been  going  on  for  weeks  now.  What  it  means 
is,  that  he  thinks  I'm  good  enough  as  a  clerk — he 
can't  deny  that  I  do  my  work  properly — but  not  good 
enough  for  anything  else.  I  haven't  brought  any 
business  into  the  office;  that's  one  thing.  He's  always 
talking  about  my  grand  friends,  as  he  calls  them,  and 
asking  why  I  can't  get  a  few  of  them  as  clients.  But 
I  can't  go  cadging  round.  Besides,  I  hardly  ever  see 
anybody  outside  Hillstead.  I  haven't  got  the  stuff 
to  go  about  with." 

"  And  he  doesn't  seem  to  like  your  going  about," 
said  Elsie.  "  I  think  he's  very  unreasonable.  I  won- 
der whether  that  was  the  reason  he  took  you  in — to 
help  him  with  people." 

"  Well,  of  course  a  broker  is  always  on  the  look 
out  for  new  clients.  All  ours  are  Cousin  Henry's  own 
sort.  I  think  perhaps  I  might  do  something  if  I  saw 
more  people.  Anyhow,  it's  rather  early  days  yet ;  I 
told  him  that,  and  he  couldn't  deny  it.  But  he  goes 
on  grumbling  all  the  same.  I'm  getting  fed  up  with 
it." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  he  wants  to  get  rid  of 
you?" 


THE  ELDEST  SON  63 

"  It  looks  as  if  it  was  blowing  up  for  that.  What 
I  feel  about  it  is  that  there's  something  he  expects  of 
me  that  he  doesn't  get.  I  don't  believe  it  has  anything 
to  do  with  my  work.  I'm  not  a  genius  at  it,  perhaps, 
but  I'm  not  a  duffer  either,  nor  a  slacker.  If  he  does 
want  to  get  rid  of  me  though,  that  will  be  the  excuse 
—that  I'm  not  shaping  to  it,  and  it's  no  good  going 
on.  I  can't  see  him  offering  me  a  partnership  now — 
the  way  things  are  going." 

"That's  rather  awful,"  said  Rose.  "It's  the  one 
thing  we've  been  fixing  our  hopes  upon,  to  save  Water- 
meads." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  say  anything  about  it  at 
home  yet.  I  may  be  mistaken,  and  he's  just  grumbling 
because  it's  his  nature  to.  Anyhow,  I've  got  two 
days'  holiday,  and  I'm  going  to  enjoy  myself  and  for- 
get all  about  Cousin  Henry  till  I  go  back  again." 

"  Poor  old  boy !  "  said  Rose.  "  It's  lovely  to  have 
you  here.  What's  your  other  piece  of  news  ?  " 

The  happy  smile  came  over  Fred's  face  again.  "  I 
said  I'd  tell  you  when  it  was  coming,"  he  said,  "  and 
it's  come.  I'm  in  love." 

They  had  reached  the  twilit  shades  of  the  beech- 
wood.  Rose  pulled  up  the  donkey,  and  all  three  of 
them  stood  and  laughed  at  one  another  on  the  sandy 
road. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it  this  time,"  Fred 
said,  as  they  went  on  again.  "  I  wish  you  could  see 
her.  I'm  sure  you'll  say  that  she's  as  beautiful  as 
any  girl  you've  ever  seen;  and  sweet  and  kind  and 
nice  too." 

"  But  who  is  she,  Freddy  darling?  " 


64  WATERMEADS 

"Oh,  Freda  Blumenthal.  I've  told  you  about  the 
Blumenthals." 

"  No,  you  haven't,  except  that  you  went  to  a  dance 
there." 

"  Well,  I've  been  there  a  good  deal  since.  It's  a 
funny  thing:  I  always  thought  she  was  awfully  pretty, 
and  I  used  to  like  her  and  like  dancing  with  her,  and 
all  that;  but  I  wasn't  a  bit  in  love.  Then  all  of  a 
sudden  it  seemed  to  come.  We  got  to  be  pals  some- 
how, and  I  talked  to  her  about  things  that  I  hadn't 
thought  of  talking  about  before,  to  girls  I  just  like, 
up  in  Hillstead,  and  dance  with." 

"  What  sort  of  things?  " 

"  Oh,  about  you,  and  Watermeads  and  everything. 
She  was  so  sympathetic.  That's  what  made  me  like 
her  first — in  a  special  way,  I  mean.  I  told  her  about 
old  Cousin  Henry  and  how  tiresome  he  was,  and  how 
I  had  to  try  to  stick  to  it  with  him  so  as  to  be  able 
to  get  enough  money  to  clear  Watermeads,  and  be 
what  we'd  been  there  before.  She  was  awfully  sweet 
about  it,  and  asked  me  all  sorts  of  questions — you 
know,  in  a  way  that  showed  she  was  really  interested, 
and  not  only  pretending." 

"  Elsie  and  I  were  talking  about  it  the  other  day, 
and  saying  we  hoped  you  would  marry  an  heiress," 
said  Rose,  "  — only  if  you  loved  her,  of  course." 

Fred  laughed.  "  If  I  only  had  the  luck  to  marry 
her!  "  he  said.  "  I  haven't  got  nearly  as  far  as  that 
yet.  I  suppose  she  must  be  an  heiress,  though  I  never 
thought  of  it  when  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  Her  father 
is  simply  rolling  in  it,  and  she  hasn't  any  brothers 
or  sisters." 


THE  ELDEST  SON  65 

"  Is  he  a  German  ?  It  sounds  rather  a  German  kind 
of  name,"  said  Rose. 

Elsie  laughed  at  her.  "  Oh,  no,  dear ;  it's  a  Chinese 
name,"  she  said.  Rose  was  a  little  given  to  the  ob- 
vious, and  this  was  the  family  way  of  dealing  with 
such  remarks.  But  Elsie  herself  asked :  "  Is  he  a  real 
German,  Freddy?  I  shouldn't  like  that  for  a  Con- 
way."  The  war  had  not  yet  come,  to  make  the  very 
thought  of  a  German  that  of  an  unclean  thing;  but 
the  Conways  were  English  of  the  English. 

"  He  78  a  German,"  said  Freddy  apologetically ; 
"  But  I  believe  he  has  always  lived  in  England,  and 
he  likes  to  be  thought  an  Englishman.  Mrs.  Blumen- 
thal  is  English,  and  Freda  has  never  been  in  Germany, 
and  can't  even  talk  German." 

"  Are  they  the  people  that  live  next  to  Cousin 
Henry?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  Those  are  the  Warings.  The  Blumen- 
thals  live  at  Hillstead  Manor,  as  they  call  it.  I  told 
you  all  about  it  when  I  went  there  first." 

"  Oh,  those  people !  But  Freddy,  you  said  they  were 
rather  vulgar." 

Fred  blushed.  "  They're  not  really,"  he  said.  "  It 
was  only  that  I  looked  at  things  rather  differently 
when  I  first  went  to  live  at  Hillstead." 

Elsie  was  still  a  little  disturbed.  "  It  is  rather  vul- 
gar to  call  an  enormous  new  house  Hillstead  Manor, 
isn't  it?"  she  said.  "And  you  laughed  at  the  dec- 
orations and  the  picture-gallery  and  the  airs  they 
gave  themselves." 

Fred  s/till  showed  discomfort.  "  Perhaps  the  house 
is  rather  vulgar,"  he  said,  "  but  Blumenthal  didn't 


66  WATERMEADS 

build  it.  He  bought  it  from  a  man  who  had  pulled 
down  the  old  manor-house ;  and  the  grounds  are  lovely. 
You  couldn't  believe  you  were  so  near  London.  He 
couldn't  help  it  being  called  the  Manor;  and  it  had 
always  been  called  that  before." 

"  Yes,  but  the  furniture  and  pictures !  " 
"  Oh,  well,  he  t*  German  by  birth.     He  hasn't  got 
the  best  of  taste.     But  Freda  has.     Her  frocks  are 
lovely." 

"  You  said  they  gave  themselves  airs." 
"  It  was  Cousin  Henry  who  said  that.  If  I  said  it 
I  suppose  I  took  it  from  him.  They  are  much  richer 
than  anybody  else  in  Hillstead,  and  live  in  the  largest 
house,  except  Lord  Marlow's,  which  hardly  seems  to 
belong  to  the  place,  as  they  don't  seem  to  mix  in  with 
any  of  the  Hillstead  people  when  they  are  there.  I 
tell  you  I'm  considered  a  terrific  blood  in  Hillstead 
because  I  go  there  sometimes.  But  I  should  never 
have  set  eyes  on  them  if  we  hadn't  known  them  in 
Meadshire." 

"  Doesn't  Cousin  Henry  know  the  Marlows  ?  " 
"  Good  Lord,  no !     He  was  green  with  envy  when  I 
went  there  first,  though  he  tried  to  hide  it.     It  was 
rather  pathetic.     He  kept  on  asking  me  afterwards 
what  I'd  said  to  them  about  him." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  you  told  us  that.  I'd  forgotten. 
I  suppose  he  knows  the  Blumenthals." 

"  Only  just.  They're  not  in  the  same  set.  There 
are  lots  of  sets  in  Hillstead,  you  know.  I  told  you  all 
about  that.  Cousin  Henry's  is  what  I  call  the  purely 
commercial." 

"Isn't  Mr.  Blumenthal  purely  commercial?" 


THE  ELDEST  SON  67 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  he  is.  But  the  house  counts 
for  a  good  deal,  and  the  fact  that  he's  so  rich.  Oh, 
well,  it's  no  good  denying  that  he  isn't  like  us.  But 
Freda  is.  She's  been  in  Paris,  and  all  that;  talks 
French  as  well  as  English.  I  don't  think  it  much 
matters  nowadays.  After  all,  old  Kirby  was  nobody 
when  he  began;  certainly  no  better  than  Blumenthal, 
except  that  he  was  English.  It's  Freda  that  matters." 

The  rest  of  the  homeward  journey  was  taken  up 
with  talk  about  Freda.  Fred  knew  she  liked  him,  and 
hoped  that  she  liked  him  very  much.  He  could  not 
be  quite  certain  of  it.  She  varied  a  little.  Sometimes 
she  made  him  as  happy  as  a  king,  sometimes  he  was 
doubtful  whether  he  wasn't  hoping  too  much.  He 
shouldn't  be  able  to  keep  it  to  himself  much  longer. 
He'd  have  to  risk  it,  in  spite  of  his  poverty  and  the 
conspicuous  wealth  of  the  Blumenthals.  He  thought 
he  would  rush  it  at  a  big  dance  that  was  to  take  place 
at  the  Manor  in  about  a  fortnight's  time.  It  de- 
pended. If  he  did  decide  to,  he  would  write  to  them 
in  the  afternoon  before  the  dance,  and  if  taking  the 
risk  proved  blissfully  to  be  justified,  he  would  send 
them  a  wire  the  next  morning.  "  The  very  first  thing, 
Freddy  dear."  Yes,  the  very  first  thing. 

So  they  came  home  to  Watermeads,  in  the  sweet 
dusk  of  the  summer  evening.  The  great  coach-house 
received  the  poor  little  governess-cart,  and  the  donkey 
was  turned  out  into  the  park.  Fred  carried  his  bag 
into  the  house  through  the  back  regions,  and  Elsie 
and  Rose  went  to  see  to  the  final  arrangement  of  the 
supper  table,  which  was  one  of  their  duties.  All  three 
of  them  were  as  happy  as  they  could  be. 


SUPPER  was  a  late  meal  at  Watermeads.  Jn  summer 
time  it  was  not  until  dark.  Sydney  Conway  was  al- 
ways extolling  the  freedom  that  came  from  having 
given  up  dining  late.  Instead  of  coming  in  to  an  eight 
o'clock  dinner  in  broad  daylight  you  could  stay  out 
as  long  as  you  liked.  The  evening  was  the  best  part 
of  the  day,  and  you  had  four  or  five  hours  of  it  be- 
fore you  after  tea.  Besides,  it  was  much  more  com- 
fortable to  change  into  clean  flannels  than  into  eve- 
ning clothes ;  and  you  went  to  bed — as  soon  as  you 
liked — feeling  much  better  than  if  you  had  a  heavy 
meal  sitting  on  your  chest.  In  this  way  he  was  ac- 
customed to  discount  the  various  successive  changes 
in  habit  that  his  poverty  had  brought  him.  But  he 
did  really  enjoy  the  much  simpler  life  he  was  forced 
to  lead,  and  only  felt  the  pinch  here  and  there,  as, 
for  instance,  in  the  absence  of  horses  in  the  stable,  and 
also  in  the  curb  that  had  to  be  put  upon  his  hospi- 
table instincts. 

At  half  past  nine  on  the  evening  of  Fred's  arrival 
the  family,  with  the  exception  of  Penelope,  assembled 
in  the  dining-room.  Except  for  the  bare  space  on  the 
wall,  from  which  Grandfather  George  had  been  re- 
moved to  fill  up  the  place  of  Grandfather  John — no 
further  adjustment  having  yet  been  carried  out — there 

88 


HOLIDAY  69 

was  little  in  the  aspect  of  the  room  to  betoken  the  de- 
cline from  a  more  spacious  use.  Wallpaper,  curtains 
and  carpet  were  faded  and  worn,  but  the  walls  were 
still  almost  covered  with  pictures,  the  curtains  on  the 
row  of  tall  windows  toned  into  the  mellow  effect  better 
than  new  ones  would  have  done,  and  the  great  stretch  of 
Turkey  carpet  was  only  patched  here  and  there.  The 
heavy  Spanish  mahogany  of  the  furniture  glowed 
richly  in  the  lamplight.  Elsie  and  Rose  kept  it  pol- 
ished, as  well  as  the  massive  plate  that  still  adorned 
dining-table  and  sideboards.  An  eyesore  was  the 
large  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling  above  the  round 
table.  Its  elaborate  pink  shade  could  not  disguise 
its  cheapness.  But  oil  costs  less  than  candles,  and  the 
single  lamp  sufficed  to  light  the  table  brilliantly, 
though  the  distant  sideboards  were  in  dusky  twilight 
and  the  corners  of  the  room  almost  in  darkness. 

The  silver  and  flowers  on  the  table  somewhat  dis- 
guised the  bare  simplicity  of  the  meal.  There  was  a 
dish  of  macaroni  au  gratin,  and  the  rest  was  bread 
and  eggs,  with  vegetables  and  fruit  from  the  garden. 
Meat  was  seldom  eaten  at  supper.  Sydney  Conway 
had  developed  a  theory  that  meat  once  a  day  was  as 
much  as  was  good  for  health;  also  that  the  most  spar- 
ing use  of  alcohol  benefited  the  human  frame.  His 
own  health  at  the  age  of  fifty-two  was  perfect,  and  he 
had  the  bodily  activity  of  a  man  ten  or  fifteen  yet*rs 
younger.  In  expansive  moments  he  would  declare  that 
if  he  should  ever  get  enough  money  to  live  at  Water- 
meads  in  the  style  of  his  fathers,  he  should  still  carry 
on  the  present  simplicity  in  the  matter  of  food  and 
drink  and  the  hours  of  meals.  No  doubt  it  suited  him, 


70  WATERMEADS 

but  he  always  ate  and  drank  freely  of  what  was  put 
before  him  when  he  dined  with  his  neighbours,  and  as 
n  lavish  hospitality  would  certainly  have  resulted  as 
the  first  sign  of  recovered  wealth,  it  is  probable  that 
he  would  have  resigned  himself  contentedly  to  the 
usual  habits  of  the  large  country  house. 

Fred's  incipient  love  affair  was  a  secret  between  him- 
self and  Elsie  and  Rose,  and  nothing  was  to  be  said 
yet  about  Cousin  Henry's  supposed  readiness  to  get 
rid  of  him.  But  his  meeting  with  Uncle  Mark  pro- 
vided conversation  for  the  whole  of  the  meal.  It  was 
an  event  of  capital  importance  in  the  history  of  the 
family.  There  was  no  knowing  what  might  come  of 
it.  Uncle  Mark  had  always  been  a  rich  man,  and  he 
had  lived  for  many  years  past  in  quite  a  small  house 
in  London,  in  such  a  way  that,  unless  he  had  outside 
claims  upon  him  of  which  no  one  knew  anything,  he 
must  have  been  saving  thousands  of  pounds  a  year, 
and  by  this  time  must  be  a  very  rich  man  indeed.  By 
a  stroke  of  the  pen,  almost,  he  might  have  relieved 
all  the  anxieties  that  were  gathering  more  and  more 
thickly  about  Watermeads,  and  yet  made  no  least  lit- 
tle change  in  his  own  life.  And  help  was  to  have  been 
expected  of  him.  It  was  not  like  poor  relations  hang- 
ing on  to  a  rich  one  upon  whom  they  had  no  claims. 
He  had  filled  the  position  of  a  father  to  Sydney  Con- 
way  in  his  late  boyhood  and  early  youth.  The  career 
towards  which  he  had  helped  him  was  not  one  in 
which  money  was  to  be  earned.  It  had  been  under- 
stood that  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  earn  money, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  was  known  that  Watermeads 
could  not  supply  what  was  necessary.  Yet  Water- 


HOLIDAY  71 

meads  was  to  have  been  later  on  part  of  the  stock  in 
trade — a  large  estate  and  a  fine  country  house  for  a 
County  Member. 

And  Uncle  Mark  had  never  quarrelled  with  his 
nephew.  He  had  said  something  rude  about  the 
woman  he  was  about  to  marry,  which  had  been  hotly 
resented.  He  had  laughed  it  off,  and  it  was  Sydney 
who  had  withdrawn  himself.  Then  Sydney  had  writ- 
ten to  him  asking  him  to  his  wedding,  and  he  had  not 
answered  the  letter,  but  after  the  marriage  had  sent 
him  a  wedding  present.  Another  letter  had  been  writ- 
ten some  months  later  asking  him  to  Watermeads. 
He  had  answered  it  long  after  the  date  for  which  he 
had  been  invited,  with  a  careless  apology.  He  had 
never  been  to  Watermeads,  and  his  letters  in  answer 
to  Sydney's,  at  long  intervals,  had  been  quite  friendly 
but  quite  indifferent.  He  had  never  written  of  his 
own  accord  nor  asked  his  nephew  to  see  him  in  London. 
Some  years  before  the  date  of  this  story,  when  life  at 
Watermeads  had  come  to  be  no  longer  possible  on  the 
lines  of  ordinary  country  house  existence,  Sydney  had 
made  his  appeal.  It  had  been  left  unanswered,  and 
there  had  been  no  intercommunication  since. 

What  was  attempted  over  the  supper  table  was  a 
gauging,  from  Fred's  account,  of  the  effect  his  meet- 
ing with  Uncle  Mark  might  have  upon  the  family  for- 
tunes. Was  he  tired  of  holding  aloof?  Now  that  he 
was  getting  old,  would  he  not  be  glad  to  identify  him- 
self again  with  his  only  relations? 

Mrs.  Conway  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  this. 
Her  general  attitude  towards  Uncle  Mark  was  one  of 
stately  but  not  altogether  unforgiving  offence.  She 


72  WATERMEADS 

had  been  grossly  and  *  unaccountably ' — a  very  fa- 
vourite word  of  hers — insulted,  but  she  was  willing 
to  forget.  It  was  not,  however,  to  be  expected  that 
the  injured  should  take  the  first  step.  Uncle  Mark 
must  '  come  to  his  senses  '  before  he  could  be  taken 
back  into  favour.  But  as  he  had  shown  no  disposition 
during  five  and  twenty  years  to  come  to  his  senses, 
this  attitude,  while  supporting  her  dignity,  had  long 
ceased  to  have  any  practical  bearing  on  the  situation. 
She  now  slightly  changed  it,  and  showed  more  anxiety 
to  accept  an  opportunity  for  reconciliation  than  she 
had  ever  shown  before. 

"  This  meeting  may  be  the  beginning  of  happier 
things,"  she  said.  "  It  is  only  to  be  expected  that  a 
man  nearing  the  grave  should  cling  to  family  ties.  He 
must  want  the  comfort  of  a  home,  the  society  of  good 
and  gentle  women.  He  might  have  had  all  that  here 
for  years  past.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  he  must 
often  have  longed  for  it,  and  only  his  pride  has  caused 
him  to  hold  out.  By  this  time  he  must  see  how  hollow 
the  world  is,  and " 

"  He  didn't  seem  to  me  to  be  wanting  much  more 
than  he's  getting  now,"  said  Fred.  "  He  doesn't 
strike  one  as  an  old  man  at  all.  He  isn't  more  than 
seventy,  is  he  father?  He  seems  much  younger." 

"  That  is  not  the  point,  Fred,"  said  Mrs.  Conway. 
*  They  say  a  man  is  as  old  as  he  feels  and  a  woman 
as  old  as  she  looks,  and  as  you  will  hardly  be  pre- 
pared to  say  that  Uncle  Mark  is  a  woman,  his  looks 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  question.  You  do  not 
know  how  old  he  feels.  You  were  not  with  him  long 

O 

enough  to  judge." 


HOLIDAY  73 

"  And  you  weren't  in  a  fit  state  to  judge,  -as  far  as 
I  can  make  out,"  said  Sydney.  "  In  fact,  from  your 
account  of  the  interview,  I  think  you  must  have  been 
rather  drunk,  Fred." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Fred,  "  I  was  only  merry  and 
bright." 

"  Well,  I  hope  he  liked  you.  I  do  hope  he  liked 
you.  He  used  to  like  me;  and  seeing  you  may  just 
have  done  the  trick." 

"  I  am  more  surprised  than  I  can  say,  Sydney,  to 
hear  you  refer  in  that  light  fashion  to  the  possibility 
of  Fred's  being  intoxicated,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  I 
must  confess  that  the  same  suspicion  had  crossed  my 
own  mind,  but  I  put  it  away  from  me  as  too  painful 
to  be  considered.  If  it  was  so " 

"  Oh,  but  it  wasn't  so,  mother,"  said  Fred.  "  I'd  done 
myself  proud,  but  I  was  only  a  little  more  cheery  and 
don't-carish  than  usual.  I  think  it  was  a  good  thing. 
Uncle  Mark  could  see  what  I  was,  and  wouldn't  think 
I  was  making  up  to  him." 

"  I  expect  he  liked  Fred  all  right,"  said  Bobby. 
Fred  was  the  hero  of  his  young  brothers. 

"  The  oracle  has  spoken,"  said  their  father.  "  When 
Bobby  makes  a  pronouncement  the  matter  can  be  con- 
sidered settled.  Yes,  I  think  he  would  like  Fred;  and 
Fred  seems  to  have  kept  enough  of  his  wits,  after  do- 
ing himself  proud — I  withdraw  the  implication  that  he 
was  drunk — to  say  one  or  two  things  that  I  know  he'd 
like.  The  question  is:  is  it  to  end  there?  Apart  al- 
together from  the  money  question,  I  should  like  to 
make  friends  with  the  old  boy  again.  Hearing  about 
him  in  that  way — just  as  I  used  to  know  him  so  well 


74  WATERMEADS 

years  ago — has  given  me  a  sort  of  longing  to  see  him. 
We  used  to  have  a  lot  of  fun  together.  He  can't  have 
altered  much,  from  what  Fred  says." 

"  You  say  *  altogether  apart  from  the  money  ques- 
tion,' Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  with  the  air  of 
bringing  her  mind  to  bear  upon  an  abstract  question. 
"  But  can  you  regard  your  Uncle  Mark  apart  from 
the  money  question?  That  is  what  I  should  like  to 
have  settled." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  say  about  it,  girls  ?  "  asked 
Sydney. 

"  We  have  always  known  that  he  could  help  us  if 
he  wanted  to,"  said  Elsie.  "  But  if  he  doesn't  want 
to,  it  would  be  rather  nice  to  see  him,  all  the  same." 

"  Yes,  I  think  that,"  said  Rose.  "  We  have  so  few 
relations." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Rose,"  said  her  mother.  "  I 
am  quite  aware  that  the  relations  on  my  side  of  the 
family  are  looked  down  upon.  One  of  them,  it  is  true, 
has  come  forward  in  the  most  generous  way  to  offer 
help  and  assistance  which  has  not  been  offered  by  the 
sole  relation  on  your  father's  side.  But  that  is  not 
the  point."  She  did  not  proceed  to  explain  what  the 
point  was,  it  having  slipped  her  memory  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  in  the  pause  that  followed  Sydney  said: 
"  Far  be  it  from  us  to  look  down  upon  our  solid  and 
helpful  Cousin  Henry,  mother.  What  do  you  think 
about  it,  Bobby  and  Billy?  " 

"  I  don't  look  down  on  Cousin  Henry,"  said  Billy. 
"  He  sent  me  half  a  sovereign  at  Christmas." 

"  If  we  made  friends  with  Uncle  Mark,  perhaps  he 
would  send  us  a  sovereign,"  said  Bobby. 


HOLIDAY  75 

"  The  oracle  again !  "  said  their  father.  "  No,  it 
isn't  quite  possible  to  regard  Uncle  Mark  altogether 
apart  from  the  money  question.  He  wouldn't  expect 
us  to.  Let's  be  honest  about  it.  What  he  was  going 
to  do  for  me  when  I  was  a  young  man  included  pro- 
viding money  amongst  other  things ;  and  that  was  al- 
ways taken  for  granted  between  us.  What  he  would 
have  given  me  he  doesn't  want  for  himself,  and  we  were 
on  such  terms  that  taking  money  from  him  meant  no 
more  than  taking  affection.  Still,  it  was  the  affection 
I  missed  more  than  the  money  at  first.  He  had  mine. 
There  would  still  be  some  for  him  if  he  wanted  it,  after 
all  these  years." 

"  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  express  an  opinion,"  said 
Mrs.  Conway,  still  in  some  offence  at  having  had  her 
last  speech  cut  short,  "  I  should  say  let  byegones  be 
byegones.  If  7  can  overlook  the  past,  surely  others 
can.  If  Uncle  Mark  comes  here  I  shall  refer  in  no 
way  to  what  is  over  and  done  with.  The  slate  shall 
be  wiped  clean.  We  will  make  a  fresh  start." 

This  handsome  surrender  seemed  to  put  the  matter 
on  a  very  high  plane.  But  further  discussion  failed 
to  discover  any  likelihood  of  Uncle  Mark's  coming  to 
Watermeads  as  a  result  of  his  meeting  with  Fred,  or 
indeed  of  anything  arising  out  of  the  meeting.  The 
Conway  family  went  to  bed  a  trifle  depressed,  and  it 
speaks  well  for  their  general  amiability  that  no-one 
felt  inclined  to  blame  Fred  for  not  having  made  more 
of  the  opportunity,  unless  it  was  Mrs.  Conway,  upon 
whom  the  light  treatment  of  so  serious  a  subject  as 
drunkenness  still  sat  heavily. 

But  the  next  morning  the  slight  depression,  which 


76  WATERMEADS 

had  already  disappeared,  was  replaced  by  a  most 
grateful  exhilaration.  The  post  brought  a  letter  from 
Uncle  Mark  to  his  nephew,  which  ran  as  follows : 

"  MY  DEAR  SYDNEY, 

"  I  fear  I  have  been  a  trifle  remiss  in  my  correspon- 
dence lately,  but  the  effect  of  increasing  age  upon  me 
is  that  I  talk  more  and  write  less.  Your  boy  may 
have  mentioned  to  you  that  we  came  across  one 
another  a  few  nights  ago.  He  does  not  seem  to  have 
the  brains  that  you  possessed  at  his  age,  but  I  should 
like  to  see  more  of  him.  Perhaps  we  shall  take  to  one 
another;  perhaps  we  shan't.  But  we  might  try.  Will 
you  ask  him  to  dine  with  me  on  Thursday  at  the 
Wanderers'  Club  at  8  o'clock?  I  hope  all  goes  well 
with  you  in  the  bucolic  existence  you  have  chosen.  I 
still  think  it  was  a  mistake  on  your  part  to  give  up 
the  parliamentary  career  in  which  you  might  possibly 
have  shone;  but  every  man  to  his  taste,  and  there  are 
no  doubt  ample  compensations  to  be  gained  from  a 
quiet  life  in  the  country. 

"  Your  affectionate  uncle 

"MARK  DRAKE." 

So  there  was  the  olive  branch  held  out  at  last !  The 
way  of  holding  it  out  was  Uncle  Mark's  own,  and  in 
the  end  was  not  misunderstood.  If  he  chose  to  assume 
that  it  was  his  nephew's  own  choice  to  give  up  his 
career,  that  was  only  putting  the  long  past  disturbance 
aside  in  a  way  that  would  not  reflect  upon  himself. 
The  concession  might  be  made  to  him  without  any 
difficulty.  And  it  was  just  as  easy  to  read  between 
the  lines  in  other  respects.  Without  a  doubt  he  had 
'  taken  to  *  Fred.  Probably  he  had  been  moved  to  some 
affectionate  remembrance  of  Fred's  father  at  the  same 


HOLIDAY  77 

age,  and  was  ready  to  go  much  further  on  the  road 
to  complete  reconciliation  than  appeared  on  the  sur- 
face of  his  letter.  At  any  rate  the  lever  was  ready 
to  Fred's  hand  by  which  reconciliation  could  be 
brought  about.  It  rested  with  him  to  use  it. 

Here  then  was  yet  another  instance  of  Fred's  luck. 
It  seemed  to  Elsie  and  Rose  that  the  family  fortunes 
positively  must  be  mended  by  him  sooner  or  later,  with 
all  the  chances  that  a  watchful  providence  was  hold- 
ing out  to  him.  Cousin  Henry  and  his  prospective 
offer  of  partnership  might  fail,  but  Cousin  Henry  no 
longer  held  the  fate  of  Watermeads  entirely  in  his 
hands.  Uncle  Mark  was  once  more  a  factor  to  be 
hopefully  taken  into  account.  And  even  if  Uncle  Mark 
failed,  there  was  the  heiress.  Fred  had  fallen  in  love 
with  an  heiress — the  very  thing  that  Elsie  and  Rose 
had  wished  might  happen,  but  could  hardly  have  ex- 
pected to  happen  so  promptly  and  satisfactorily.  As 
they  made  the  beds  together  they  talked  happily  of 
the  bright  days  that  were  coming.  Freddy  had  not 
disappointed  them.  Freddy  was  going  to  do  it  all,  by 
one  means  or  another. 

And  in  the  meantime,  the  present  immediate  days 
were  bright  enough.  Fred's  home-coming  alone  created 
an  air  of  holiday,  which  was  enhanced  by  the  con- 
tinuous perfection  of  the  June  weather.  Today  there 
was  to  be  a  cricket  match  on  the  ground  in  the  park. 
Fred  had  got  up  a  team,  to  play  the  town  of  Sher- 
brook.  It  would  include  cricketers  from  neighbour- 
ing country  houses,  and  those  who  would  come  to 
look  on  would  make  of  it  quite  a  festive  occasion. 
Watermeads  could  still  supply  a  tent  in  which  to  enter- 


78  WATERMEADS 

tain  private  friends  on  the  cricket  field ;  and  with  fruit 
and  flowers  from  the  garden,  cakes  made  in  the  house, 
and  milk  and  cream  from  their  own  cows,  the  Con- 
ways  could  manage  a  tea-party  quite  in  the  old  style, 
and  with  very  little  expense. 

The  prospect  was  one  of  unadulterated  pleasure. 
Everybody  liked  coming  to  Watermeads,  because  the 
Conways  were  so  pleased  to  see  everybody,  and  with 
their  limited  resources  entertained  them  so  well.  The 
poverty  would  be  in  abeyance  on  such  an  occasion  as 
this.  Except  that  there  would  be  no  '  cups  '  or  other 
alcoholic  drinks  for  the  men,  the  entertainment  would 
not  differ  from  any  that  would  be  provided  by  a  richer 
house  for  a  similar  affair.  There  would  be  the  cricket 
to  watch,  in  the  beautiful  park,  under  the  fair  June 
sky;  tennis  and  croquet  on  the  lawns;  and  the  lovely 
overgrown  garden  for  those  who  preferred  to  wander 
about  it.  There  was  also  the  fact  that  the  unusual 
state  to  which  this  fairly  ancient  and  highly  respect- 
able county  family  had  been  reduced,  and  the  way  in 
which  they  stood  up  against  it,  would  provide  ample 
material  for  conversation  to  a  large  proportion  of 
their  visitors.  It  was  more  interesting  to  go  to  Water- 
meads  and  talk  about  what  was  happening  there  than 
to  go  to  other  houses.  But  the  Conways  did  not  take 
this  into  account.  They  had  plenty  to  offer  without 
that. 

Fred  was  up  at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning. 
Even  if  there  had  not  been  a  great  deal  to  do  in  the 
way  of  preparation  for  the  day,  he  would  have  been 
out  early.  It  was  a  pure  joy  to  him,  after  his  con- 
fined life  in  London,  to  taste  the  freedom  of  his  home. 


HOLIDAY  79 

His  love  for  Watermeads  was  greater  every  time  he 
came  back  to  it.  Of  all  the  family  he  felt  its  charm 
most.  There  was  growing  up  in  him  a  strong  desire 
to  get  it  back  to  what  it  had  been,  to  cherish  it,  to 
make  his  life  there,  even  if  it  should  take  him  years 
to  do  it.  Whether  or  no  Cousin  Henry  was  right  in 
charging  him  with  a  lack  of  business  initiative,  which 
alone  could  bring  him  what  he  desired  from  his  work, 
his  work  was  none  the  less  done  with  an  end  always  in 
view,  and  done  as  well  as  he  was  able  to  do  it.  It 
was  this  that  chiefly  upheld  him  in  a  life  that  was 
essentially  uncongenial,  and  it  was  giving  him  a  stead- 
iness of  character  that  was  hardly  native  to  him. 

The  cricket  pitch  was  got  ready  by  other  members 
of  the  club,  but  the  Watermeads  tent  had  to  be  put 
up,  and  the  lawns  got  ready  for  games.  It  had  long 
been  necessary  for  the  Conways  to  do  all  that  sort  of 
thing  for  themselves.  The  gardener  and  his  assistant 
had  their  hands  full  with  more  serious  matters,  and 
could  not  be  taken  away  from  their  work,  except  to 
lend  an  occasional  hand.  So  Fred  and  Bobby  and 
Billy  worked  hard  until  breakfast  time,  and  their 
father  helped  them  energetically  for  a  time,  and  then 
went  off  to  do  something  else. 

At  breakfast  Uncle  Mark's  letter  came,  and  after- 
wards they  went  to  work  again  with  heightened  energy. 
The  cricket  was  to  begin  at  half  past  ten,  and  there 
was  a  lot  more  to  do  than  Fred  had  anticipated.  The 
croquet  and  tennis  lawns  had  been  cut,  but  badly 
wanted  rolling  as  well  as  freshly  marking.  So  the 
whole  family,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Conway* 
fastened  themselves  on  to  the  heavy  roller  from  the 


80  WATERMEADS 

cricket  ground  and  brought  it  with  great  labour  into 
the  garden;  and  here  they  were  joined  by  Bel- 
lamy, who  had  come  up  to  see  if  he  could  do  anything 
to  help.  People  were  always  willing  to  help  the  Con- 
way  family  to  do  anything  that  had  to  be  done;  they 
were  always  willing  to  help  themselves,  though  their 
habit  was  to  put  off  whatever  wanted  doing  until  al- 
most the  last  moment. 

Fred  and  Bellamy  had  not  met  before.  They  looked 
at  one  another  and  liked  one  another.  Fred  showed 
it  by  being  more  than  usually  gay  and  talkative,  Bel- 
lamy perhaps  not  at  all,  as  he  spoke  no  more  than 
was  his  habit,  and  seldom  smiled.  But  the  feeling  of 
liking  was  there,  and  when  he  went  off  with  Elsie  to 
mix  and  fetch  the  whitewash,  she  said  to  him,  all 
smiles:  "  It  •»*  jolly  to  have  Freddy  home,"  sure  that 
he  would  sympathise  with  her  in  her  pleasure,  even  if 
he  did  not  do  so  by  speech. 

But  he  looked  down  at  her  and  smiled  his  grave 
smile.  "  I  wish  I  was  as  young  as  he  is,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  know  quite  what  to  make  of  this.  He 
had  seemed  old  to  her  at  first,  chiefly  because  he  wore 
a  beard  and  was  so  very  silent  and  serious.  But 
gradually  she,  and  Rose  too,  had  come  to  accept  him 
as  of  their  generation  rather  than  that  of  their  pa- 
rents. He  was,  in  fact,  not  over  thirty.  "  Why  do 
you  want  to  be  younger  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  happier  when^I  was  Fred's  age,"  he  said,  in 
a  tone  that  closed  the  subject,  but  also  caused  her  to 
feel  that  she  had  received  a  confidence. 

When  they  returned  to  the  tennis  court  with  a 
bucket  of  whitewash  and  the  marker,  they  found  the 


HOLIDAY  81 

roller  in  the  middle  of  the  croquet  lawn  motionless,  and 
an  addition  to  the  group  round  it.  "  Oh,  it's  Jack 
Kirby,"  said  Elsie.  "  I  wonder  why  he  has  come  over 
so  early." 

It  seemed  from  his  own  account  that  Jack  Kirby 
had  come  over  an  hour  before  the  time  fixed  for  the 
match  in  which  he  was  to  play,  to  see  if  he  could  do 
anything  to  help.  But  he  did  not  seem  best  pleased 
when  he  was  asked  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  roller.  He 
took  one  turn  up  and  down  the  croquet  lawn,  and  then 
rested,  while  the  other  three  men  and  the  two  boys 
went  back  to  the  other  end.  When  they  returned  he 
was  helping  Elsie  and  Rose  to  mark  the  tennis  court, 
with  his  coat  off,  and  such  an  air  of  being  just  the 
person  wanted  for  that  job  that  there  could  be  no 
suggestion  of  his  taking  on  the  other  again. 

He  was  a  cheerful  looking,  rather  loud  and  confi- 
dent speaking  young  man  of  medium  height.  A  stu- 
dent of  heredity  and  environment  might  have  seen  in 
him  the  outcome  of  a  very  ordinary  stock  tuned  up 
to  a  higher  pitch  by  the  influence  of  wealth  and  con- 
sequent social  facilities.  But  it  would  only  be  fair 
to  say  that  the  freedom  and  confidence  of  his  man- 
ners were  as  natural  to  him  as  to  those  whose  assured 
position  arose  not  from  wealth  alone.  He  had  had 
exactly  the  same  training,  and  effectually  the  same 
surroundings.  There  was  scarcely  any  society  in 
which  he  would  not  have  been  accepted  at  his  own 
valuation;  he  had  never  had  to  struggle  to  get  where 
he  was,  and  took  everything  that  came  to  him  as  a 
matter  of  right.  Absence  of  breeding  was  latent,  but 
not  apparent;  or  at  least  so  little  apparent  that  only 


82  WATERMEADS 

a  somewhat  hostile  critic  would  have  seen  the  signs  of 
it. 

Such  a  critic,  however,  seemed  to  exist  in  the  per- 
son of  Bellamy,  who  eyed  him  with  marked  disfavour 
as  the  roller  was  brought  heavily  up  to  where  the 
tennis  court  adjoined  the  croquet  lawn.  He  said  noth- 
ing, however,  until  much  later,  when  he  was  again 
alone  with  Elsie  for  a  few  minutes.  This  was  when 
the  crowd  was  beginning  to  gather  for  the  cricket 
match.  Mrs.  Conway's  guests  would  not  arrive  until 
the  afternoon,  but  the  Sherbrook  team  was  on  the 
ground,  and  Fred's  side  had  already  gathered,  with 
a  few  of  the  more  enthusiastic  onlookers.  Jack  Kirby 
alone  amongst  the  cricketers  was  not  in  the  group 
around  the  club  tent.  He  was  to  be  seen  between  the 
garden  and  the  park,  talking  vivaciously  to  Rose,  as 
if  cricket  were  quite  an  unimportant  part  of  the  day's 
proceedings,  and  he  had  come  over  to  Watermeads 
merely  for  some  hours  of  friendly  intercourse. 

"  That  young  man  seems  to  think  the  world  was 
made  for  him,"  said  Bellamy. 

Elsie  threw  a  glance  at  his  face,  which  was  turned 
towards  the  unconscious  couple  with  no  very  amiable 
expression,  and  looked  down  again  quickly.  She  had 
never  seen  him  look  like  that  and  speak  like  that  be- 
fore, and  had  nothing  to  say  in  reply.  He  made  no 
further  remark,  but  turned  towards  the  tents,  and  they 
walked  back  to  them  together. 


CHAPTER   VII 

AT    THE    CRICKET    MATCH 

FRED'S  side  was  made  up  of  half  a  dozen  good  cricket- 
ers and  a  somewhat  lengthy  tail.  It  included  his 
father  and  his  young  brothers,  who  had  been  looking 
forward  to  this  great  day  with  alternate  strong  hopes 
and  desperate  fears.  The  star  was  the  Reverend  Ed- 
ward Probert,  an  Oxford  University,  and  County 
cricketer,  who  had  quite  lately  been  appointed  to  a 
neighbouring  rectory.  This  was  his  first  appearance 
at  Watermeads. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Conway's  guests  as- 
sembled. That  lady  was  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  her- 
self as  much  as  anybody  on  the  ground.  The  poverty 
of  Watermeads  was  for  the  time  being  put  aside;  she 
took  her  place  once  more  as  an  entertainer  of  her 
equals,  and  what  she  had  to  offer  them  was  equal  to 
the  day.  Her  own  idea  of  herself  was  that  the  suc- 
cess of  such  an  entertainment  rested  upon  her  own 
shoulders ;  but  she  unconsciously  relied  so  much  upon 
the  qualities  of  her  family  that  she  had  no  qualms 
about  the  enjoyment  of  her  guests,  and  was  able  to 
devote  herself  to  the  few  whom  she  was  really  pleased 
to  see. 

One  of  these  was  Lady  Sophia  Raine,  who  had  mar- 
ried at  about  the  same  age  as  herself.  Colonel  Raine 
was  Squire  of  Rockhanger,  the  nearest  large  house 

83 


84  WATERMEADS 

to  Watermeads,  and  the  two  young  wives  had  been  a 
good  deal  together  in  the  days  when  there  was  some 
equality  in  the  conditions  of  their  respective  houses. 
If  Mrs.  Conway  had  always  been  something  of  an  od- 
dity, so  had  Lady  Sophia.  She  was  immensely  in- 
terested in  everybody  else's  business,  but  most  of  all 
interested  in  her  own  rendering  of  their  stories.  She 
was  a  great  artist  in  gossip,  and  if  she  had  been  ill- 
natured  might  have  worked  much  mischief;  for  she 
could  create  a  full-grown  scandal  out  of  the  most 
meagre  material,  and  her  stories  were  always  rounded 
and  complete.  She  had  an  unfailing  eye  for  char- 
acter, where  it  concerned  her  art,  and  had  made  many 
of  her  most  brilliant  successes  by  deducing  from  her 
own  observation  what  people  would  be  likely  to  do, 
when  information  as  to  what  they  actually  had  done 
might  be  lacking.  But  in  her  personal  intercourse  she 
was  strangely  wanting  in  discrimination.  Almost  any- 
one with  whom  she  was  thrown  into  contact  was  the 
same  to  her — a  pair  of  ears  to  hear  with.  She  had 
never  seen  the  absurdities  in  Mrs.  Conway's  speech 
and  behaviour  when  they  were  young  women  together, 
and  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  as  an  intimate 
neighbour;  so  that  the  friendship  was  hardly  dimin- 
ished when  Watermeads  began  to  drop  out  of  the  run- 
ning with  other  country  houses.  If  she  saw  her  now 
with  different  eyes,  it  was  because  Mrs.  Conway  had 
become  a  character  in  a  story ;  but  that  did  not  affect 
her  when  the  story  was  not  under  discussion.  With 
all  her  own  oddities  she  was  kind-hearted.  She  was 
sorry  for  her  old  companion,  and  did  many  little 
things  to  ease  the  conditions  under  which  she  lived. 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  85 

The  chief  of  them  was  that  she  never  made  any  dif- 
ference in  her  behaviour  towards  her.  Consequently, 
Mrs.  Conway  regarded  her  with  some  warmth  of  feel- 
ing; if  she  could  be  said  to  have  a  friend,  it  was  Lady 
Sophia  Raine. 

When  Lady  Sophia  came  on  to  the  ground,  the 
Reverend  Edward  Probert  was  batting  for  Fred's  side, 
and  by  the  time  she  and  Mrs.  Conway  had  settled 
themselves  to  their  comfortable  talk,  he  also  was  set- 
tled at  the  wicket,  and  was  running  up  a  most  satis- 
factory score.  He  was  a  good-looking  young  man  of 
twenty-eight  or  so,  and  batted  with  a  freedom  and 
skill  that  made  it  a  pleasure  to  watch  him. 

He  was  the  text  for  Lady  Sophia's  first  discourse. 
She  surveyed  him  through  her  tortoise-shell  lorgnettes 
and  found  him  good  to  look  upon.  "  I've  thought  of 
him  for  one  of  your  girls,"  she  said.  "  Elsie,  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be,  as  young  Kirby  seems  to  be  taken 
with  Rose.  I'll  get  them  together  as  soon  as  possible, 
or  he'll  be  snapped  up.  We've  got  such  a  lot  of  girls 
aU  about  the  place,  and  not  enough  young  men  to  go 
round.  If  I  had  girls  of  my  own  I  might  not  be  so 
generous.  As  it  is  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  yours." 

Mrs.  Conway  began  to  say  that  nothing  was  further 
from  her  thoughts  than 

"  Mr.  Probert  is  an  acquisition  to  the  neighbour- 
hood," continued  Lady  Sophia.  "  He  is  the  only  son 
of  Sir  Vivian  Probert,  and  will  come  in  for  a  fine 
property  by  and  by.  Sir  Vivian  is  only  forty-nine; 
he  married  young — one  of  the  Bunts  of  Lincolnshire 
— I  believe  they're  not  very  happy;  they  say  she 
drinks,  but  I  don't  believe  it;  more  likely  to  be  drugs 


86  WATERMEADS 

if  it's  anything  at  all.  But  they  say  it  of  everybody. 
They  say  it  of  me,  you  know.  It  will  probably  be 
years  before  this  young  man  succeeds,  but  in  the  mean- 
time Lutterbourne  is  as  good  as  anyone  could  want. 
It  is  worth  about  four  hundred  a  year,  but  that 
doesn't  matter  in  his  case.  Sir  Vivian  is  as  rich  as 
Croesus;  coal  mines,  besides  a  good  landed  property. 
Lutterbourne  Rectory  is  almost  like  a  Squire's  house. 
It  wouldn't  be  very  far  from  you,  either.  I'll  do  what 
I  can." 

Mrs.  Conway  gathered  herself  for  an  effort.  She 
had  many  things  to  say  and  wanted  to  give  them  due 
weight.  But  before  she  could  begin  Probert  was  bril- 
liantly caught  out  in  the  slips,  and  the  subsequent  mild 
excitement  extended  itself  to  Lady  Sophia,  who 
missed  the  opening  of  Mrs.  Conway's  speech,  and  in- 
terrupted it  when  it  was  well  under  weigh  to  exclaim: 
"  Why,  who  on  earth's  that?  I  know  his  face  as  well 
as  I  know  my  own." 

It  was  Bellamy  going  in  to  bat.  Mrs.  Conway, 
knowing  from  long  experience  that  no  word  of  her 
speech  would  be  listened  to  if  Lady  Sophia's  attention 
was  fixed  elsewhere,  relinquished  it  to  say :  "  That  is 
a  Mr.  Bellamy — an  artist  who  has  taken  rooms  in  the 
village.  He  appears  to  be  a  gentlemanlike  sort  of  a 
man,  for  an  artist,  and  Sydney  made  friends  with  him 
when  he  first  came.  Sydney  makes  friends  with  all 
sorts,  and  I  sometimes  wonder " 

"  Bellamy !  Why,  of  course  it  is !  "  exclaimed  Lady 
Sophia.  "  It  was  the  beard  that  deceived  me  for  the 
moment.  Geoffrey  Bellamy!  An  artist,  did  you  say?  " 

"  He   paints   pictures    of   the   scenery,"   said   Mrs. 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  87 

Conway.  "  I  have  not  seen  any  of  them,  and  cannot 
tell  whether  they  are  good  pictures  or  not.  We  get 
many  artists  here  in  summer  time,  and " 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  he  would  show  you  his  pic- 
tures," said  Lady  Sophia.  "  He's  no  more  an  artist 
than  I  am.  Geoffrey  Bellamy!  An  artist  indeed! 
Now  whatever  can  he  be  doing,  living  in  rooms  in  an 
out  of  the  way  village?  Really,  Jane,  this  is  very 
interesting.  Have  you  seen  much  of  him?  Does  he 
take  an  interest  in  either  of  the  girls?  If  he  does,  I 
should  stop  it,  if  I  were  you.  Heaven  knows  I'm  not 
particular,  but Oh,  well,  if  you  haven't  recog- 
nised him,  as  I  see  you  haven't,  surely  you  can  re- 
member the  Case  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  did  not  remember  the  Case,  and  Lady 
Sophia  recounted  it  to  her. 

"  The  Bellamys  are  very  good  people  in  Cumber- 
land," she  said.  "  But  nobody  knew  much  about  them 
till  this  young  man  ran  away  with  young  Ralph  Prin- 
gle's  wife.  It  was  a  very  bad  case — not  the  running 
away,  which  unfortunately  one  has  had  to  get  used 
to  in  so  many  cases,  but  what  went  before  it.  The  two 
young  men  had  been  friends — in  the  same  regiment, 
I  fancy,  and — oh,  well,  I  can't  remember  all  the  de- 
tails, but  it  all  came  out  at  the  trial  and  made  a  very 
bad  impression.  I  was  there  on  the  last  day;  that's 
why  I  recognised  the  man.  Unfortunately  it  was  over 
sooner  than  had  been  anticipated,  and  I  hardly  heard 
anything;  or  I  should  have  remembered.  But  I  can 
look  it  up.  Anyhow,  he  married  the  girl  afterwards 
and  disappeared.  That's  why  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  him.  Now,  apparently,  he's  left  her.  But  an 


88  WATERMEADS 

artist!  Has  anybody  seen  Mr.  Bellamy's  pictures 
since  he  has  been  here?  " 

"  I  have,"  piped  a  small  voice  from  behind  Mrs. 
Conway's  chair.  "  He  lets  me  clean  his  brushes  in 
turpentine." 

Lady  Sophia  jumped  in  her  seat.  "  Good  gra- 
cious, child ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  How  long  have  you 
been  there?  What  did  you  hear  me  saying?  " 

"  I've  only  just  come,"  said  Penelope.  "  I 
heard  you  ask  if  anybody  had  seen  Mr.  Bellamy's 
pictures." 

Lady  Sophia  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  breathed 
relief.  Mrs.  Conway  upon  whose  slow-moving  brain 
the  story  she  had  heard  was  only  just  beginning  to 
make  an  impression,  ordered  Penelope  off  with  more 
asperity  than  she  was  wont  to  assume  towards  her,  but 
explained  to  Lady  Sophia  that  the  child  would  not 
have  understood  anything  that  had  been  said  if  she 
had  happened  to  overhear  it. 

"  If  there  is  anything  that  I  dislike  more  than 
another,"  she  said,  "  it  is  any  suspicion  of  impropri- 
ety. I  own  that  I  should  never  have  expected  it  in 
the  case  of  Mr.  Bellamy,  who  looks  to  me  too  solemn 
and  serious  for  anything  of  the  sort.  I  suppose  I 
am  too  confiding.  People  are  brought  to  the  house, 
and  I  am  expected  to  accept  them  and  treat  them  with 
whatever  hospitality  is  still  possible  in  our  unfor- 
tunately reduced  circumstances.  I  sometimes  won- 
der  " 

Lady  Sophia  had  been  watching  Bellamy  batting 
during  the  progress  of  this  speech.  He  had  just  cut 
a  ball  to  the  boundary  in  a  very  pretty  style,  and  she 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  89 

exclaimed:  "Does  that  look  like  an  artist?  Now  I 
wonder  what  on  earth  the  man  can  be  masquerading 
here  for.  If  it's  your  pretty  Rose  he's  after,  Jane, 
I  should  put  a  stop  to  it  as  soon  as  possible.  I  was 
told  that  he  was  a  very  amusing  man  at  the  time  of 
the  trial.  But  really,  one  has  to  draw  the  line  some- 
where, and  with  young  girls  about  I  should  draw  it  at 
Geoffrey  Bellamy  if  I  were  you." 

"  Now  you  have  told  me  what  sort  of  a  man  he  is, 
and  the  disgraceful  story  attached  to  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Conway,  "  I  shall  certainly  refuse  to  admit  him 

"  Ah,  here  are  Lord  and  Lady  Kirby,"  said  Lady 
Sophia,  "  being  far  the  most  important  people  in  the 
County,  of  course  they  must  make  a  sort  of  state  entry 
about  an  hour  after  the  rest  of  us.  I  don't  think 
I  can  bear  the  effulgence  of  their  presence.  I  will 
go  and  talk  to  somebody  else." 

Lord  and  Lady  Kirby  hardly  deserved  this  scath- 
ing satire.  Having  got  rid  of  their  numerous  guests, 
they  had  taken  an  hour's  motor-run  because  they 
liked  being  together.  Nor  were  they  open  to  the 
charge  of  giving  themselves  high  airs.  They  enjoyed 
their  wealth  and  they  enjoyed  their  consequence;  but 
they  were  ready  to  share  their  good  things  with  all 
and  sundry.  Although  they  had  been  '  climbers ' 
in  the  early  days  of  their  social  career,  they  had  long 
since  reached  the  eminence  upon  which  they  felt  com- 
fortable, and  had  no  idea  of  lessening  their  enjoyment 
of  life  by  narrowing  their  circle.  It  was  actually 
Lady  Sophia  who  had  tried  to  play  the  great  lady 
over  Lady  Kirby,  and  she  was  piqued  because  the 


90  WATERMEADS 

Kirbys  had  shown  that  neither  her  countenance  nor  its 
absence  made  any  difference  to  them. 

Lord  Kirby  was  a  plebeian-looking  man  of  sixty, 
strong  and  vigorous,  and  hearty  in  his  manners.  It 
had  been  said  of  him  in  the  City  of  London,  where  he 
had  made  a  great  position  for  himself  and  piled  up 
a  great  fortune,  that  his  free  and  open  way  had  been 
a  considerable  asset  to  him;  that  it  had  made  men 
trust  him  where  he  was  not  altogether  to  be  trusted, 
and  that  it  misrepresented  his  character,  which  was 
as  hard  as  a  stone.  There  was  some  truth  in  this,  but 
it  was  not  all  true.  None  of  it  was  true  with  regard 
to  his  personal  relationships.  He  liked  people,  and 
was  generous  towards  them;  and  since  he  had  attained 
his  present  position  he  had  had  no  private  axe  to 
grind. 

Lady  Kirby  was  a  pleasant  mediocre  woman,  with 
a  great  zest  for  life  and  movement.  She  was  easy  to 
amuse,  and  her  laugh  was  infectious.  She  was  bulky 
in  figure,  and  dressed  herself  elaborately.  She  had  a 
smile  for  everybody,  but  made  few  friends.  She  ad- 
mired her  husband  intensely,  and  her  son  hardly  less, 
and  both  of  them  made  much  of  her,  not  only  in  pri- 
vate but  in  public. 

Jack  Kirby,  for  instance,  came  straight  to  her  when 
she  had  seated  herself  beside  Mrs.  Conway,  but  she 
sent  him  away  again  almost  immediately.  "  I  don't 
want  you"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  to  have  a  talk  with 
Mrs.  Conway.  You  go  and  amuse  yourself  with  some- 
body else.  There  are  lots  of  pretty  girls  here  for 
you  to  talk  to,  and  there's  the  prettiest  of  all  of  them 
with  an  empty  chair  at  her  side." 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  91 

He  had  himself  only  just  vacated  the  empty  chair 
by  the  side  of  Rose,  and  now  went  back  to  it.  Lady 
Kirby  looked  after  him  fondly.  "  I  do  like  Jack  to 
have  really  nice  girls  to  make  friends  with,"  she  said. 
"  It's  always  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man.  And  I 
like  your  two  so  much,  Mrs.  Conway.  Dear  girls,  I 
call  them.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  take  them  back  with  me 
this  evening,  and  keep  them  till  Monday.  There  are 
some  nice  young  people  in  the  house,  and  we  could 
find  them  some  fun.  Will  you?  " 

This  was  the  kind  of  invitation  that  had  to  be 
fenced  with.  Long  practice  had  given  Mrs.  Conway 
the  ability  to  judge  at  once  whether  acceptance  was 
possible,  and,  if  it  was  not,  to  proffer  the  best  excuse. 
So  many  things  had  to  be  thought  of.  Clothes,  of 
course,  were  the  chief.  Elsie  and  Rose  had  had  ar- 
rears of  income  paid  up,  and  a  present  given  them  be- 
sides. Their  wardrobes  were  in  course  of  replenish- 
ment, but  were  not  yet  up  to  the  requisite  pitch.  Tips 
to  servants,  means  of  getting  to  and  fro — all  the  lit- 
tle accidents  of  expense  that  those  who  gave  the  in- 
vitations never  considered  had  to  be  considered  by 
those  who  wished  to  accept  them.  Mrs.  Conway  saw 
at  once  that  this  invitation  could  not  be  accepted. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Lady  Kirby,"  she  said,  "  but 
my  eldest  son  is  at  home,  and  as  he  so  seldom  gets  a 
holiday  with  us  away  from  his  work  I  think  the  girls 
would  prefer  to  stay  with  him." 

"  Oh,  but  couldn't  he  come  too  ?  "  Lady  Kirby 
pressed  her  facile  hospitality,  looking  about  her  all 
the  time,  while  Mrs.  Conway  made  her  ponderous 
speeches  of  reply.  "  Oh,  well,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  if 


92  WATERMEADS 

they  can't  come  to  sleep,  will  you  let  them  come  to 
lunch  tomorrow  and  stay  to  dine?  We'll  fetch  them 
and  send  them  back.  Now,  don't  say  no  to  that, 
please,  Mrs.  Conway." 

Mrs.  Conway  did  not  say  no,  nor  entirely  yes.  The 
girls  might  go  over  to  lunch,  with  Fred;  it  was  very 
kind  of  Lady  Kirby;  she  thought  they  had  better  not 
stay  to  dine;  but  it  was  extremely  kind  of  her  all  the 
same.  Lady  Kirby  left  it  at  that,  and,  being  rather 
tired  of  Mrs.  Conway  by  this  time,  skilfully  inserted 
her  husband  into  the  seat  she  had  occupied,  and  went 
off  to  talk  and  laugh  with  somebody  else.. 

Lord  Kirby  was  quite  ready  to  make  himself  agree- 
able to  his  hostess  for  the  time  that  courtesy  de- 
manded, and  for  rather  longer  if  her  society  should 
turn  out  agreeable  to  him.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  met  Mrs.  Conway.  He  thought  her  an  attractive 
woman.  Her  manners  were  stiffer  and  more  stately 
than  quite  suited  him,  but  she  seemed  willing  to  un- 
bend to  him  personally,  which  flattered  him  a  little. 
If  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  extreme  poverty  that  had 
overtaken  Watermeads  he  had  forgotten  it.  The 
Conways  bulked  as  important  people  in  his  eyes,  be- 
cause they  lived  in  a  very  large  house,  and  had  lived 
there  for  generations.  In  spite  of  his  new  peerage  he 
was  quite  ready  to  give  honour  to  such  people,  and, 
in  spite  of  his  wealth,  he  did  not  consider  their  dignity 
lessened  by  an  absence  of  it.  The  Conways  were  hard 
up — he  did  know  as  much  as  that — but  so  were  lots 
of  people  in  their  position.  As  he  himself  was  so  very 
far  from  being  hard  up  the  contrast  was  not  al- 
together ungratifying,  and  he  was  ready  to  do  any- 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  93 

thing  that  lay  in  his  power  to  ease  matters  for  the 
young  people,  whom  he  liked,  as  he  liked  everything 
that  tended  towards  gaiety  and  freshness. 

He  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Rose,  which  caused 
him  to  be  rather  more  watchful  of  Jack's  movements 
with  regard  to  her  than  would  otherwise  have  been 
natural  to  him;  for  Jack  liked  making  friends  with 
pretty  girls,  and  had  not  hitherto  devoted  himself  so 
much  to  any  particular  one  as  to  give  rise  to  expecta- 
tions for  the  future.  But  Lord  Kirby  thought  that 
this  little  Conway  girl  was  beginning  to  be  more  of 
an  attraction  than  other  girls,  and  he  had  come  to 
Watermeads  with  an  idea  of  getting  to  know  a  bit 
more  about  her  people  and  her  surroundings.  He 
would  rather  have  had  Jack  marry  amongst  the  high 
aristocracy,  but  failing  that  he  was  ready  to  welcome 
almost  any  girl  as  a  daughter-in-law,  so  long  as  she 
was  a  lady,  young  and  pretty,  and  affectionate  to- 
wards himself.  Rose  possessed  the  first  three  qualifi- 
cations, and,  as  for  the  last,  she  had  behaved  very 
nicely  to  him  when  she  had  come  over  to  Prittlewell 
with  her  brother  and  sister,  and  he  thought  that  he 
might  easily  bring  himself  to  love  her  as  a  daughter, 
if  Jack  should  make  her  his  choice.  The  fact  is  that 
Lord  Kirby  would  have  exchanged  a  surprisingly  large 
proportion  of  the  wealth  he  had  made  for  a  daughter 
of  his  own,  and  was  anxious  for  the  time  to  come  when 
his  son  would  bring  some  nice  girl  to  him  and  ask 
him  to  accept  her  as  one.  With  this  idea  always  in 
his  mind  he  was  disposed  to  observe  Mrs.  Conway 
somewhat  closely,  as  one  who  might  come  to  be  in 
close  relationship  to  him  by  and  by. 


94  WATERMEADS 

There  was  something  in  her  speech  that  he  did  not 
quite  understand;  she  was  half  assertive  and  half 
apologetic.  The  assertiveness  seemed  to  belong  to 
her,  and  he  was  ready  to  accept  it.  The  apology  did 
not,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he  gathered  what  she 
was  apologising  for.  He  found  out  when,  after  a 
stroll  round  that  part  of  the  garden  near  the  cricket 
field,  he  asked  if  he  might  see  the  house.  Houses  in- 
terested him;  and  he  had  heard  that  there  were  some 
fine  pictures  at  Watermeads. 

Mrs.  Conway  led  the  way  indoors  with  proud  hu- 
mility. Her  attitude  was  of  one  ready  to  unbare  all 
wounds,  and  even  to  parade  them.  She  made  Lord 
Kirby  feel  uncomfortable.  He  had  had  an  idea  of 
asking  if  he  might  have  a  whiskey  and  soda  when  they 
should  reach  some  room  in  which  the  request  would 
not  seem  indecent.  He  was  hot  and  thirsty  after  his 
drive.  But  if  his  hosts  were  as  poor  as  Mrs.  Conway 
was  insisting  on,  it  would  have  seemed  indecent  any- 
where. He  had  the  feeling,  too,  so  disagreeable  to  a 
rich  man,  that  pride  of  wealth  was  being  fixed  upon 
him.  "  This  is  all  very  dreadful  to  you,  no  doubt ; 
but  make  nothing  of  it.  Hug  your  riches  by  all 
means ;  but  as  for  me,  I  despise  them."  That  was  how 
Mrs.  Conway  seemed  to  be  addressing  him,  as  she  led 
him  through  the  rooms  which  showed  by  scores  of  lit- 
tle signs  how  low  the  Conway  estate  had  fallen.  He 
was  not  allowed  to  admire  anything  without  being 
made  to  appear  as  if  he  were  making  the  best  of  a 
bad  job  out  of  politeness,  and  was  being  seen  through. 
From  inclining  to  admire  Mrs.  Conway  with  her  stiff 
stately  manners,  he  jumped  to  the  other  extreme  of 


AT  THE  CRICKET  MATCH  95 

disliking  her  almost  ferociously.  He  mopped  his  brow 
as  he  emerged  once  more  into  the  sunlight,  though 
it  was  hot  out  of  doors,  and  he  had  been  cool  within, 
and  went  off  at  once  to  solace  himself  with  the  society 
of  his  wife  as  a  relief  from  what  he  had  undergone. 

"  That's  an  awful  woman,"  he  said  to  her  later  on, 
when  they  were  motoring  home  together.  "  You  hear 
about  people  being  purse-proud,  but  she  seems  to  be 
empty-purse-proud,  and  I  don't  know  that  that  isn't 
worse.  If  people  are  as  hard  up  as  that  they  ought 
to  hide  it." 

"  It's  such  a  nuisance,"  acquiesced  Lady  Kirby. 
"  One  might  do  a  lot  for  the  young  people,  but  she 
always  makes  you  feel  that  you're  taking  something 
from  them  instead  of  giving  it,  if  you  ask  them  to  do 
anything." 

"  I  like  the  young  people,  and  especially  that  pretty 
little  Rose,"  said  Lord  Kirby.  "  I  know  Jack  is  smit- 
ten with  her,  and  she's  just  the  sort  of  nice  little  girl 
I  should  like  to  see  him  marry,  if  her  people  were  all 
right.  Of  course  they  ought  to  be,  with  that  great 
place  there, — but  I  don't  know;  they  might  be  always 
sponging  on  one.  Mrs.  Conway  gives  herself  all  the 
airs  in  the  world,  but  she  gives  you  the  idea  that  she 
would  take  what  she  could  get,  too.  Upon  my  word, 
I  felt  inclined  to  say  to  her  once  or  twice :  *  Well,  if 
a  fiver  would  be  of  any  use  to  you ! ' 

He  laughed  heartily  at  his  own  wit.  "  I  shouldn't 
worry  about  Jack,"  said  Lady  Kirby.  "  He  likes  play- 
ing with  the  little  thing  when  he's  down  here.  I  doubt 
if  he  ever  gives  her  a  thought  at  other  times." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

POSSIBILITIES 

As  Mrs.  Conway  had  declared  that  Bellamy  should 
not  enter  her  house  again,  it  was  rather  unfortunate 
that  her  husband  should  have  invited  him  to  supper 
after  the  match,  and  should  have  omitted  to  tell  her 
so  until  he  actually  appeared. 

Bellamy  came  into  the  hall  looking  very  grave  and 
very  dignified;  and  so  much  not  the  sort  of  person  to 
have  been  the  hero  of  the  unsavoury  story  recounted 
by  Lady  Sophia  that  Mrs.  Conway  recoiled  before 
the  effort  of  dismissing  him  summarily,  and  contented 
herself  with  an  extremely  cold,  not  to  say  forbidding, 
reception.  Bellamy  looked  surprised  for  a  moment, 
but  Mrs.  Conway  was  given  to  moods,  and  he  had  had 
experience  of  them  already.  The  family  in  general 
was  happy  and  talkative,  and  the  fact  that  the  hostess 
sat  grimly  silent  in  her  place  and  made  no  effort  to 
entertain  the  guest,  who  sat  next  to  her,  had  less  ef- 
fect upon  the  gaiety  of  the  meal  than  might  have  been 
expected.  Bellamy  himself  talked  more  than  usual, 
and  actually  vouchsafed  some  information  about  him- 
self, which  he  had  scarcely  ever  done  before. 

He  had  been  at  Trinity,  it  appeared — the  Conway 
college — and  at  Eton  before  that.  Sydney  Conway 
looked  at  him  with  new  eyes.  This  was  not  the  usual 
training  of  an  artist,  and  Bellamy  had  presented  him- 

96 


POSSIBILITIES  97 

self  as  nothing  but  an  artist  at  Watermeads.  Men 
educated  at  Eton,  and  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge, 
usually  belonged  to  people  whom  one  should  *  know 
about.'  Sydney  had  *  known  about '  so  many  people 
in  his  youth,  and  it  was  a  source  of  mild  pride  to 
him,  in  his  enforced  retirement,  that  he  was  still  in 
some  sort  of  touch  with  the  world  in  which  names  were 
not  merely  names,  but  evoked  images.  He  mentioned 
Bellamys  from  Suffolk,  tentatively,  and  this  Bellamy 
replied  that  they  were  cousins  of  sorts,  but  he  did  not 
know  any  of  them.  He  seemed  to  be  desirous  of  re- 
tiring into  his  shell  again  under  the  pressure  of  any- 
thing like  a  question  about  himself,  or  an  attempt  to 
fix  him  into  a  social  pattern.  "  I've  lived  a  wander- 
ing sort  of  life  since  I  left  Cambridge,"  he  said ;  "  and 
I've  been  a  lot  out  of  England." 

Mrs.  Conway  broke  silence  with  an  accusing  glare. 
"  I  think  you  were  in  the  army  for  a  time,  were  you 
not,  Mr.  Bellamy?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  No,  Mrs.  Conway," 
he  said. 

"  What  put  that  into  your  head,  mother  ?  "  enquired 
Sydney,  as  she  breathed  heavily  at  the  reply,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  more  in  the  question  than  appeared 
on  the  surface. 

"  Lady  Sophia  mentioned  Mr.  Bellamy  to  me,"  she 
said.  "  She  told  me  more  about  him  than  he  has  ever 
told  us  about  himself." 

"  She  probably  told  you  about  my  elder  brother," 
said  Bellamy  instantly,  "  for  whom  I  have  sometimes 
been  mistaken." 

"  She  said  Geoffrey  Bellamy,"  said  Mrs.   Conway. 


98  WATERMEADS 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  brother.     My  name  is  Giles." 

He  went  on  talking,  and  gave  Mrs.  Conway  the  op- 
portunity of  recovering  her  equanimity.  Her  wits 
did  not  move  very  fast,  and  she  still  thought  that 
there  was  something  very  odd  about  the  whole  affair, 
and  the  sooner  it  was  looked  into  the  better. 

Bellamy  must  have  divined  the  course  her  thoughts 
were  taking,  for  he  made  an  opportunity  after  sup- 
per of  explaining  himself  to  Sydney  Conway.  It  was 
a  glorious  moonlight  night,  and  the  whole  family  was 
in  the  garden,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Conway, 
who  did  not  like  the  night  air,  and  Penelope,  who  was 
in  bed. 

"  I'd  better  tell  you  all  about  myself,"  he  said,  "  as 
you've  been  so  kind  as  to  admit  me  into  intimacy  here. 
I've  nothing  to  hide,  but " 

"  Oh,  there's  no  need  to  tell  me  anything,"  said  Syd- 
ney lightly.  "  You're  a  gentleman.  That's  enough 
for  me." 

Bellamy  smiled  to  himself,  but  went  on :  "  Mrs.  Con- 
way  has  been  told  my  brother's  story,"  he  said,  "  and 
she  has  obviously  fixed  it  on  to  me.  It  isn't  a  very 
creditable  one.  He  ran  way  with  a  brother-officer's 
wife,  and  married  her  after  the  divorce.  As  far  as  I'm 
concerned,  my  history  has  been  that  of  most  artists, 
since  I  left  Cambridge  nine  years  ago.  I've  lived  in 
Paris  and  in  London,  but  not  much  in  London.  Per- 
haps the  greater  part  of  my  time  has  been  spent  wan- 
dering about  Europe,  painting." 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right,"  said  Sydney  hastily. 
"  Old  Sophia  Raine  has  a  very  active  tongue  in  her 
head  though.  If  she's  got  hold  of  the  idea  that  you 


POSSIBILITIES  99 

are  the  hero  of  a  story,  she'll  put  it  about.  However, 
she  can  be  stopped,  now  we  know  the  truth." 

When  this  conversation  was  reported  to  Mrs.  Con- 
way  later  on,  she  still  thought  that  there  was  some- 
thing odd  about  the  whole  thing.  Had  the  man  said 
anything  about  his  home,  or  his  family?  He  had  had 
an  expensive  education,  it  was  true,  and  Lady  Sophia 
said  that  he  came  from  very  good  people;  but  here 
he  was,  living  in  two  rooms  in  a  cottage,  and  every- 
body knew  that  Mrs.  Comberbatch,  although  honest 
and  clean,  was  a  very  indifferent  cook.  All  these 
things  wanted  explaining.  Had  Sydney  made  any  at- 
tempt to  get  the  man  really  to  explain  himself? 

"  The  fact  is,  Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  having 
worked  herself  into  the  attitude  of  combined  censure 
and  exposition  in  which  she  felt  most  at  her  mental 
ease,  "  that  nobody  thinks  of  anything  in  this  house 
except  myself.  Have  you  ever  realised,  for  instance, 
that  you  have  two  daughters  who  are  grown  up?  Be- 
cause I  assure  you  that  other  people  do.  Sophia 
Raine  said  at  once  that  we  ought  to  be  extremely  care- 
ful what  men  we  admit  to  the  house  now,  and  of  course 
she  is  right,  though  there  was  not  the  slightest  ne- 
cessity to  say  such  a  thing  to  me,  as  I  am  fully  cap- 
able of  looking  after  the  welfare  of  my  daughters  for 
myself.  However,  that  is  not  the  point.  It  is  quite 
evident  to  me  that  this  Mr.  Bellamy — artist  or  no 
artist — has  come  here  because  he  is  interested  in  one 
of  the  girls,  and " 

"  Well,  mother,"  Sydney  interrupted,  "  he  could 
hardly  have  come  here  for  that  reason,  for  he  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  us  until  he  had  been  here  a  week 


100  WATERMEADS 

— unless  we  are  to  suppose  that  the  fame  of  the  girls 
has  gone  abroad  into  all  lands,  and  Bellamy  came  here 
to  see  for  himself.  That's  possible,  of  course, 
but " 

"  Pray  do  not  treat  what  I  say  in  that  foolish  fash- 
ion, Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  You  know  per- 
fectly well  what  I  mean,  and  I  will  not  have  my  words 
twisted  and  made  a  matter  for  laughter.  Are  Elsie 
and  Rose  of  marriageable  age,  or  are  they  not?  That 
is  the  point.  If  you  tell  me  they  are  not  I  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say.  If  the  contrary,  then  it  is  quite  clear 
that  it  is  of  great  importance  to  know  everything 
that  can  be  known  about  the  men  who  are  admitted  to 
intimacy  with  them.  Do  I  make  myself  clear  ?  " 

"  Clear  as  daylight,  mother.  Which  of  the  girls 
is  Bellamy  paying  attention  to — Elsie,  Rose  or  Pe- 
nelope? A  man  doesn't  see  these  things,  you  know. 
I'd  really  no  idea  that  he  was  paying  attention  to  any 
of  them." 

"  You  mention  Penelope,  of  course,  to  annoy  me, 
Sydney,  as  you  must  be  well  aware  that  nothing  of 
the  sort  is  to  be  expected  in  connection  with  her  for 
some  years  to  come.  If  you  had  eyes  in  your  head 
that  you  could  see  anything  with,  it  would  be  per- 
fectly plain  to  you  that  it  is  Elsie  that  Mr.  Bellamy 
is  after." 

"  I  don't  quite  like  the  expression  of  his  being 
1  after  '  Elsie,  mother." 

"  Like  it  or  not,  Sydney,  that  is  what  it  comes  to, 
and  I  say  now  that  we  have  let  it  go  on  too  long,  and 
it  is  time  to  act." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  it  is  time  to  act  yet.     None  of 


POSSIBILITIES  101 

us  have  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing  until  a  few  hours 
ago,  and  there  may  be  nothing  in  it  at  all.  If  he  is 
inclined  towards  either  Elsie  or  Rose,  we  shall  see  it 
going  on,  and  we  can  take  our  line  about  it.  No  need 
to  worry  yet  awhile." 

Mrs.  Conway  breathed  deeply.  "  That  is  always  the 
way  things  are  done  in  this  house,"  she  said.  "  Put 
off — put  off — put  off!  Time  enough  by  and  by!  Let 
us  sleep  and  take  our  ease.  And  we  wake  up  to  find 
ruin  staring  us  in  the  face  and  the  mischief  past  re- 
pair." 

"  That  was  a  good  speech,  mother,  but  didn't  end 
quite  as  well  as  it  began.  Well,  I  should  like  to  know 
a  bit  more  about  Bellamy  myself — I  mean  the  sort 
of  place  he  comes  from,  and  all  that.  He  is  rather  an 
oyster,  it's  true,  but  he  strikes  me  as  absolutely 
straightforward,  and  of  course  he's  a  gentleman.  Any- 
body can  see  that  for  themselves.  I'll  tell  you  what 
— I'll  ask  Uncle  Mark  about  him.  He's  sure  to  know, 
because  he  knows  everything  about  everybody.  It'll 
be  something  to  write  about.  I  believe  Bellamy  is 
rather  taken  with  Elsie,  now  you  come  to  mention  it. 
One  ought  to  find  out  whatever  one  can." 

The  idea  that  Bellamy  was  rather  taken  with  Elsie 
was  one  which  seemed  to  spring  up  suddenly  from 
every  quarter.  To  Fred  it  seemed  an  obvious  one, 
and  he  expressed  surprise  that  it  had  not  been  sug- 
gested to  him.  It  was  to  Rose  that  he  spoke.  Surely 
the  idea  must  have  occurred  to  her!  Why  hadn't 
she  said  anything  about  it? 

Rose  showed  the  slightest  trace  of  irritation,  which 
was  quite  unusual  with  her.  "  Why  can't  a  man  be 


102  WATERMEADS 

friends  with  us  without  that  always  being  talked 
about?"  she  said.  "Mr.  Bellamy  is  much  too  old, 
for  one  thing." 

Fred  laughed  at  her.  "  Of  course  he  isn't  too  old," 
he  said.  "  You  only  say  that  because  he  has  a  beard. 
Most  artists  have,  I  believe.  Anyhow,  he  wouldn't  be 
too  old  for  Elsie.  She's  so  sensible." 

"  Fow're  not,  Freddy  dear,  to  say  a  thing  like 
that,"  retorted  Rose.  "  It's  too  bad  to  call  Elsie  sensi- 
ble— at  her  age.  She's  no  more  sensible  than  I  am. 
Mr.  Bellamy  is  sensible,  if  you  like.  I  wish  he'd  mind 
his  own  business,  instead  of " 

"  Instead  of  what  ?  "  asked  Fred,  as  she  broke  off . 

"  Oh,  nothing.  But  I  wish  he'd  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness." 

This  was  all  that  he  could  get  out  of  her,  but  a 
little  later  Penelope  announced  to  Fred  that  she  had 
heard  Mr.  Bellamy  saying  something  to  Rose  about 
Jack  Kirby. 

"  I  couldn't  hear  what  it  was,"  said  Penelope,  "  but 
Rose  said  that  she  thought  Jack  Kirby  was  very  nice, 
so  that  I  knew  that  Mr.  Bellamy  had  said  he  wasn't." 

Information  gained  in  this  way  could  neither  be  ac- 
cepted nor  extended.  Penelope  was  rebuked  for  her 
inveterate  habit  of  prying  and  listening,  and  went  off 
quite  unmoved  by  the  rebuke,  throwing  over  her  shoul- 
der the  cryptic  remark,  "  It  isn't  Elsie,  after  all ;  it's 
Rose.  So  that  makes  two  of  them." 

The  eyes  of  the  terrible  child  were  known  to  be 
preternaturally  sharp,  but  if  she  meant  by  this  that 
it  was  Rose  and  not  Elsie  that  Bellamy  was  *  after,' 
she  had  made  an  obvious  mistake,  misled  by  super- 


POSSIBILITIES  103 

ficial  appearances,  and  the  novelty  of  the  phenomena 
to  which  she  was  adjusting  her  observation.  Fred 
thought  that  it  was  significant  that  Bellamy  should 
have  shown  some  jealousy  of  Jack  Kirby.  Jack  had 
a  way  of  making  himself  at  home  in  other  people's 
houses,  and,  if  Bellamy  was  in  process  of  becoming 
attached  to  Elsie,  the  intimacy  to  which  he  had  been 
admitted  at  Watermeads  would  seem  to  him  to  be  at- 
tacked when  another  young  man  appeared  to  claim  a 
still  greater  share  of  it.  It  did  not  matter  whether  it 
was  Elsie  or  Rose  who  was  the  attraction  there,  ex- 
cept in  the  degree  of  dislike  aroused  by  his  free  de- 
meanour. Fred  felt  that  nobody  could  possibly  under- 
stand these  things  better  than  he  did,  enlightened  as 
his  mind  had  recently  become  towards  affairs  of  the 
heart.  Bellamy's  attitude  did  not  make  him  like  him 
any  the  less.  He  appeared  more  youthfully  human, 
less  like  a  man  of  thirty — with  a  beard — because  he 
was  jealous  of  Jack  Kirby  making  himself  at  home 
at  Watermeads. 

The  probability  of  Bellamy  being  in  love  with  Elsie, 
or  at  least  on  the  way  to  being  in  love  with  her,  seemed 
of  considerable  importance  to  Fred — he  could  not 
quite  tell  why,  until  he  thought  it  all  over  in  church 
while  Mr.  Bonner  was  preaching.  Then  he  decided 
that  it  was  because  Bellamy  was  older  and  more  seri- 
ous than  either  himself  or  Jack  Kirby,  and  an  emo- 
tional condition  that  all  three  of  them  shared  was 
seen  to  involve  somewhat  momentous  consequences.  It 
was  a  lifting  of  himself  and  his  two  sisters  on  to  a 
definitely  higher  plane  in  the  family  life  of  Watermeads. 
He  had  hardly  as  yet  come  to  look  upon  his  own 


104  WATERMEADS 

'  affair '  as  more  than  a  young  man's  sweet  fancy, 
which  might  lead  to  the  bliss  of  an  *  engagement.' 
Farther  than  that  he  had  hardly  looked  ahead.  Jack 
Kirby's  fancy  for  Rose  had  certainly  never  struck 
him  as  more  than  that.  Boys  and  girls — they  fell  in 
love  and  fell  out  of  it  again ;  they  were  more  youth- 
ful, and  of  an  unimportant  generation,  falling  in  love 
with  one  another  than  pursuing  the  ordinary  business 
of  their  careers.  But  when  a  man  as  old  as  Bellamy 
paid  suit  to  a  girl,  it  meant  marriage,  not  dalliance 
out  of  which  marriage  might  come. 

So  there  they  were,  the  three  of  them,  Elsie,  Rose 
and  himself,  no  longer  the  children  whom  their  pa- 
rents' handling  of  affairs  carried  along  wherever  it 
might  be,  but  players  taking  an  active  part  in  the 
game  for  themselves.  It  put  the  whole  difficult  and 
absorbing  question  of  Watermeads  and  its  future  in 
a  new  light. 

The  marriage  of  Elsie  or  of  Rose,  or  of  both  of 
them,  could  have  no  direct  bearing  upon  the  fate  of 
Watermeads;  but  indirectly  it  would  be  of  some  im- 
portance. Even  to  Fred,  the  gradual  decline  of  con- 
sideration in  which  the  Conways  as  a  once  important 
County  family  were  held  was  plain  enough.  As  long 
as  they  lived  at  Watermeads  they  were  still  *  some- 
bodies ' — at  or  about  Watermeads.  Away  from  it,  as 
his  own  experience  had  shown  him,  they  now  amounted 
to  very  little.  And  their  poverty  and  difficulties  were 
increasing,  to  a  point  at  which  a  marriage  for  either 
of  the  girls  amongst  the  people  to  whom  they  be- 
longed might  come  to  be  considered  almost  a  misal- 
liance. As  they  grew  older,  the  differences  between 


POSSIBILITIES  105 

them  and  their  neighbours  were  becoming  more  and 
more  marked,  and  if  their  way  of  living  declined  much 
further  from  the  accepted  standard  there  might  come 
a  time  when  it  would  be  irksome  to  them  to  keep  up 
any  pretence  of  equality.  Fred  had  begun  to  see 
these  things,  even  if,  as  he  hoped,  his  sisters  did  not 
see  them;  and  they  troubled  him  intermittently. 

But  now  such  forebodings  seemed  uncalled  for,  and 
they  were  far  from  his  thoughts  on  this  Sunday  morn- 
ing. Bellamy  was  in  love  with  Elsie — or,  at  least,  it 
looked  like  it — and  Jack  Kirby  was  in  love  with  Rose. 
More  than  was  known  at  present  was  to  be  found  out 
about  Bellamy's  standing,  but  his  manners  and  appear- 
ance and  his  educational  record  left  no  doubt  in  Fred's 
easy  mind  that  whatever  should  be  found  out  about 
him  in  addition  would  show  him  to  be  of  the  right 
quality  for  an  alliance  with  the  Conways.  As  for 
Jack  Kirby — he  was  the  match  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Rose  would  be  Lady  Kirby  some  day,  in  command  of 
unlimited  wealth,  and,  what  was  better  still,  Water- 
meads'  nearest  important  neighbour.  Fred  felt  a 
great  increase  of  years  and  weight  accruing  to  him 
as  he  looked  into  the  future.  He  had  not  before  trans- 
lated Jack  Kirby's  gratifying  attentions  into  such 
tangible  happenings,  but  in  the  light  of  Bellamy's  at- 
tentions it  was  natural  now  so  to  regard  them. 

As  for  himself,  that  sweet  fair-haired  blue-eyed 
Freda  was  the  girl  for  him,  whether  she  was  rich  or 
poor,  high-born  or  otherwise.  But  since,  as  it  had 
happened,  she  was  an  *  heiress '  in  addition  to  her 
other  delightful  qualities,  it  might  be  that  all  the 
crowding  difficulties  in  connection  with  Watermeads 


106  WATERMEADS 

and  its  future  would  be  happily  resolved  by  his  mar- 
riage to  her.  The  thought  was  an  added  source  of 
gratitude  towards  the  dear  girl  for  all  that  she  had 
shown  to  him  of  charm  and  sympathy.  How  happy 
they  would  be  together,  if  the  almost  intolerable  bliss 
of  acceptance  should  be  granted  to  him!  Here  his 
thoughts  left  the  path  of  economic  anticipation,  and 
wandered  off  into  the  flowery  meadows  of  memory  and 
longing,  while  the  Rector  droned  on  with  his  sermon, 
and  a  bee  which  had  strayed  into  the  cool  church 
sang  in  much  the  same  tone  the  glories  of  the  sum- 
mer world  outside,  and  its  disapproval  of  the  flowers 
with  which  Elsie's  and  Rose's  new  hats  were  trimmed. 
Whatever  drawbacks  in  the  way  of  lack  of  money 
Elsie  and  Rose  may  have  had  to  overcome,  they  suf- 
fered none  from  lack  of  taste.  They  were  as  prettily 
attired  as  any  of  the  girls  who  made  part  of  the  large 
company  gathered  at  Prittlewell,  and  the  consciousness 
of  being  for  once  well  turned  out  gave  them  the  nec- 
essary assurance.  Fred  was  proud  of  his  sisters  as 
he  saw  them  taking  their  bright  part  in  all  the  gaiety 
and  laughter  that  went  on  over  the  luncheon  table, 
and  afterwards  in  the  games  that  went  on  in  the 
garden.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Rose  was  by  far  the 
prettiest  girl  of  them  all,  and  also  that  she  was 
receiving  the  most  attention.  As  far  as  the  young 
men  were  concerned,  the  attention  was  not  allowed  to 
become  unduly  marked  from  anyone  except  Jack 
Kirby,  who  devoted  himself  to  her  in  a  way  that  Fred 
thought  he  had  never  done  before.  It  was  his  father 
who  alone  rivalled  him.  Lord  Kirby  seemed  to  be  lay- 
ing himself  out  to  show  in  what  high  esteem  Rose  was 


POSSIBILITIES  107 

held  at  Prittlewell.  His  face  was  admiring  and  even 
proprietary  as  he  regarded  her,  and  it  must  have  been 
plain  to  everybody  that  Rose  was  the  girl  out  of  all 
those  present  upon  whom  his  liking  and  his  hopes 
were  settled. 

The  day  was  a  veritable  triumph  for  Rose.  Events 
seemed  to  be  moving  almost  too  fast.  Fred  grew  a 
little  alarmed  at  what  was  going  on  under  his  eyes. 
The  idea  of  marriage  being  so  much  in  his  mind,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  its  structure  was  rearing  itself 
on  foundations  that  were  hardly  yet  strong  enough  to 
bear  it.  Supposing  Lord  Kirby  to  want  it  and  to 
anticipate  it,  had  Jack  yet  reached  the  point  at  which 
he  wanted  it?  And  was  Rose  ready  for  it  yet?  He 
had  been  witness  of  all  the  meetings  between  them 
hitherto,  and  they  had  been  actually  very  few,  al- 
though as  far  as  it  went  the  intimacy  had  established 
itself  very  quickly.  They  liked  one  another:  that  was 
obvious.  But  Jack  did  not  appear  to  him  to  have 
got  past  the  point  which  in  his  own  case  had  been 
reached  long  before  he  had  had  any  idea  of  anything 
like  real  love-making;  and  he  doubted  whether  Rose 
would  not  be  surprised  and  somewhat  flustered  if  she 
were  invited  to  declare  herself.  It  might  even  *  put 
her  off '  Jack  Kirby  altogether.  At  her  age,  she 
could  hardly  be  expected  to  weigh  the  great  advan- 
tages of  such  a  match,  nor  did  it  fit  in  with  his  view 
of  his  sister  that  she  should  do  so.  Jack  must  make 
his  way  with  her  just  as  any  young  man  would  do 
— as  he  himself  hoped  he  was  doing  with  Freda,  to 
whom  he  had  nothing  to  offer  except  himself. 

The  three  of  them  were  sent  home  in  a  car  after 


108  WATERMEADS 

dinner.  They  were  all  a  trifle  exalted  by  the  gaiety 
they  had  enjoyed,  so  different  in  its  surroundings  of 
wealth  and  ease  from  the  quieter  pleasures  of  their 
own  home.  But  after  they  had  chattered  and  laughed 
among  themselves  for  a  time,  they  fell  silent.  Mov- 
ing rapidly  through  the  sweet  summer  night,  Fred's 
thoughts  returned  to  the  perennial  subject  of  Water- 
meads.  The  moonlit  meadows,  the  glint  of  gently- 
flowing  waters,  the  dim  mystery  of  the  woods,  stole 
with  enchantment  into  his  spirit.  The  beauty  of  this 
well-loved  country  was  summed  up  to  him  in  his  home, 
surrounded  by  it,  but  maimed  in  its  power  of  evoking 
pleasure  by  the  shadow  of  poverty  that  lay  over  it 
all.  If  they  could  live  at  Watermeads  as  they  lived 
at  Prittlewell !  Watermeads  would  be  even  better  than 
Prittlewell,  if  there  were  money  to  keep  it  up  with,  and 
to  enable  its  owners  to  entertain  their  friends  there. 
Prittlewell  was  too  much  the  country  home  of  people 
who  were  not  of  descent  or  by  temperament  country 
people.  Nor  was  Prittlewell  nearly  so  attractive  a 
place  as  Watermeads,  even  in  its  state  of  decay,  still 
less  as  it  might  be  made,  if  the  money  that  was  lav- 
ished on  Prittlewell  were  available. 

Well,  perhaps  there  was  a  brighter  day  dawning  for 
Watermeads.  Fred  sat  between  his  sisters  bathed  in 
a  glow  of  hope  and  happiness.  He  did  not  examine 
into  the  springs  of  his  feeling.  It  was  enough  for  him 
that  he  was  young,  and  hope  was  a  natural  outcome 
of  his  youth,  and  the  general  way  in  which  the  world 
seemed  to  be  ordered.  Some  changes,  at  least,  were 
coming,  and  it  was  not  too  much  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  they  would  lead  to  desired  goals. 


POSSIBILITIES  109 

The  necessity  of  giving  five  shillings  to  the  chauffeur, 
who  received  the  tip  with  the  slightly  scornful  indif- 
ference of  his  class,  rather  dashed  his  spirits.  Hav- 
ing been  moving  on  a  plane  in  which  a  tip  of  five  shill- 
ings had  no  more  significance  to  the  donor  than  the 
price  of  a  stamp  or  a  newspaper,  and  projecting  his 
mind  forward  to  the  time  in  which  that  pleasant  state 
of  things  would  be  as  illustrative  of  life  at  Water- 
meads  as  of  life  at  Prittlewell,  it  was  irksome  to  be 
reminded  that  the  time  was  not  yet,  and  five  shillings 
was  still  the  price  of  something  that  would  have  to  be 
gone  without.  It  also  suddenly  came  home  to  him 
that  his  holiday  was  over,  and  that  Cousin  Henry's 
expectations  as  to  what  was  due  from  him  would  ne- 
cessitate an  uncomfortably  early  start  on  the  morrow. 
And  he  wanted  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  Elsie  alone, 
but  did  not  suppose  that  it  would  be  possible  to  get 
her  without  Rose,  or  at  least  without  letting  Rose  see 
that  it  was  she  whom  he  wanted  to  say  the  word  or 
two  about. 

But  when  they  had  entered  the  house  by  a  door  in 
the  back  premises,  Rose  slipped  off  upstairs  as  he  was 
busy  with  lock  and  bolts,  and  Elsie  remained  behind. 

How  did  Rose  feel  about  Jack  Kirby?  Wasn't  it 
pretty  obvious  now  that  it  was  all  coming  along  fast? 
Was  she  ready  for  a  declaration  from  him  if  it  should 
come?  Those  were  the  questions  he  put  to  Elsie  as 
they  moved  slowly  along  the  echoing  passages,  their 
bedroom  candlesticks  in  their  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Freddy  dear,"  said  Elsie,  with  a 
slightly  puzzled  frown  on  her  pretty  face.  "  I  think 
she  likes  him,  but  she  doesn't  talk  to  me  about  it." 


110  WATERMEADS 

"  Doesn't  talk  to  you  about  it ! "  It  was  the  one 
tiling  that  he  would  have  thought  they  would  have 
talked  about  together  just  now,  since  they  had  always 
talked  together  about  everything. 

"  Do  you  think  he  means  anything?  "  she  asked  him 
in  return. 

He  played  with  the  question.  He  felt,  somehow, 
that  Jack  was  likely  to  go  a  good  deal  further  on  the 
road  of  paying  attentions  to  a  pretty  girl  without 
asking  himself  whither  the  road  led  than  he  himself 
would  do.  "  I  should  say  he  was  pretty  well  in  love 
with  her,"  he  ended,  rather  weakly. 

It  seemed  that  Elsie,  with  none  of  his  experience 
to  guide  her,  had  come  to  much  the  same  conclusion  as 
he  had.  "  I  couldn't  say  yet  whether  I  thought  he 
meant  anything  or  not,"  she  said. 

He  was  inclined  to  combat  the  doubt,  thus  plainly 
expressed,  and  strengthened  his  previous  statement. 
"  I  believe  he's  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her,"  he 
said.  "  And  old  Kirby  loves  her  too.  I'm  pretty  cer- 
tain he  wants  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  he  does,"  said  Elsie,  with  large 
indifference.  "  But  that  wouldn't  count  for  much. 
I'll  let  you  know,  Freddy  dear,  if  anything  happens. 
I  should  think  Jack  would  be  coming  over  here  to- 
morrow. He  doesn't  go  back  to  London  till  Tuesday. 
We  really  must  go  to  bed  now.  I'll  call  you  at  five 
o'clock. 


CHAPTER   IX 

OLIVIA 

OLIVIA  BONNER  sat  at  the  open  window  of  her  bedroom. 
It  was  very  early  in  the  morning.  The  human  world 
was  asleep  all  about  her,  but  the  amazing  world  of 
nature  was  in  clamorous  life  in  the  dewy  spaces  of 
the  Vicarage  garden  on  to  which  she  was  looking. 
She  drank  in  the  sweet  sights  and  sounds  and  scents, 
and  thought  she  could  never  have  enough  of  them. 

She  had  reached  her  father's  house  only  the  evening 
before.  She  had  been  away  from  it  for  the  years  that 
had  changed  her  from  girlhood  into  womanhood.  She 
had  devoted  herself  to  the  whims  of  a  querulous, 
pleasure-seeking  woman,  whom  she  had  thought  at 
least  to  have  loved  her.  But  Lady  Bridgeworth  had 
grown  tired  of  her  niece,  as  she  had  tired  of  every- 
thing— people,  places  and  pursuits — and  Olivia  had 
been  returned  to  her  father,  carriage  handsomely  paid, 
to  adjust  herself  as  best  she  could  to  a  life  as  differ- 
ent as  possible  from  that  which  she  had  been  leading 
for  three  years  past. 

She  had  purposely  put  off  this  necessary  process  of 
adjustment  until  the  disturbances  of  farewells  and  sub- 
sequent journeyings  should  be  over.  She  had  to  think 
it  all  over  for  herself;  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  take 
this,  or  any  great  change  in  circumstance,  lightly. 
As  she  had  taken  seriously  her  part  of  providing  com- 
panionship and  sympathy  for  her  widowed  aunt,  when 

111 


112  WATERMEADS 

her  father  had  regretfully  given  her  up  to  her,  so 
now  she  took  seriously  the  part  that  it  would  be  hers 
to  play  in  her  father's  house,  to  which  she  had  re- 
turned for  good.  And  first  she  wanted  to  ask  herself, 
and  get  the  question  off  her  mind,  whether  there  had 
been  anything  lacking  in  herself  that  had  made  her 
aunt  take  leave  of  her  with  hardly  less,  though  more 
concealed,  pleasure  than  that  with  which  she  had  first 
welcomed  her. 

Lady  Bridgeworth  was  the  Vicar's  half-sister — 
nearly  thirty  years  younger  than  himself.  Her  hus- 
band had  been  in  diplomacy,  and  she  had  led  just  the 
life  that  suited  her  during  the  ten  years  of  her  mar- 
riage. His  appointments  had  been  only  in  the  larger 
European  capitals,  and  when  he  had  been  promoted 
to  be  Minister  to  a  South  American  State,  she  had 
lingered  behind  in  Rome,  unable  to  bring  herself  to 
accompany  him.  His  death,  within  a  few  weeks  of  his 
taking  up  his  new  appointment,  had  upset  her  terri- 
bly. She  was  full  of  remorse  at  having  allowed  him 
to  go  out  without  her,  and  at  having  cherished  a  grow- 
ing determination  that  she  would  not  go  out  to  him 
at  all,  if  she  could  find  the  right  progression  of  ex- 
cuses. In  this  mood  Olivia  had  first  found  her,  and 
she  had  set  herself  to  distract  her  mind  and  to  raise 
her  from  the  unwholesome  state  of  depression  in  which 
she  was  sunk.  She  had  thought  herself  to  be  success- 
ful, and  the  consciousness  of  duty  well  done  had  upheld 
her  through  an  unquiet  year,  in  which  nothing  she 
enjoyed  made  up  to  her  for  the  loss  of  her  English 
home  and  her  father's  dear  companionship.  But  now, 
looking  back,  she  doubted  whether  she  had  really  had 


OLIVIA  113 

much  to  do  with  her  aunt's  recovery.  She  had  per- 
haps assisted  in  her  return  to  health  by  refusing  to 
let  her  regard  herself  as  a  permanent  invalid,  but  that 
return  might  have  been  brought  about  without  her 
by  the  zest  which  Lady  Bridgeworth  had  in  her  for 
life,  and  above  all  for  amusement.  At  least,  during 
the  nearly  two  years  that  had  since  elapsed,  their 
tastes  had  diverged  more  and  more.  The  young  girl, 
so  much  the  more  gifted  and  attractive  of  the  two, 
had  felt  increasing  distaste  for  a  life  of  nothing  but 
change  and  amusement;  and  the  older  woman  had 
thrown  off  by  degrees,  and  at  last  come  definitely  to 
fight  against,  anything  that  she  had  at  first  accepted 
that  could  relieve  the  senseless  round  of  gaiety  she 
was  now  strong  enough  to  enjoy  once  more.  She  was 
sick  of  pictures  and  churches,  sick  of  reading  any- 
thing but  the  least  intelligent  novels,  sick  of  music, 
except  of  the  lightest  sort,  sick  of  society  that  took 
account  of  anything  but  the  rapid  froth  of  inter- 
course which  alone  she  was  fitted  to  enjoy.  Olivia's 
society  became  irksome  to  her.  Olivia  could  be  gay 
and  bright:  she  had  at  first  seemed  to  her  aunt  the 
incarnation  of  bright  youth,  and  had  reacted  wonder- 
fully on  her  own  state  of  depression.  But  there  was 
an  undercurrent  of  seriousness  in  her,  and  there  was 
none  in  Lady  Bridgeworth,  whose  melancholy  was  of 
time  and  circumstance,  to  be  fought  against  as  a 
disagreeable  state  of  mind  when  pressure  was  with- 
drawn. Olivia's  dark  eyes  were  a  constant  reproach 
to  her  frivolity,  when  frivolity  once  more  became  the 
guiding  factor  of  her  life.  She  had  to  be  always  pre- 
tending; and  she  hated  the  trouble  of  it. 


Olivia  now  saw,  as  she  thought  it  all  over,  that  the 
struggle  between  them  had  been  going  on  for  a  long 
time,  and  she  saw  it  clearly  as  a  struggle,  and  one 
that  could  have  had  no  other  end.  She  could  not  have 
acted  differently,  being  what  she  was.  It  was  not  that 
she  had  set  herself  against  a  life  of  frivolity,  for  she 
had  not  realised  fully,  as  she  did  now,  that  it  was 
that  that  had  been  offered  to  her.  It  was  not  in  her 
to  accept  it.  To  this  young  girl,  life  must  have  a 
serious  basis,  of  duty  and  love  at  least,  of  self-sac- 
rifice if  it  should  be  demanded  of  her.  She  had  given 
duty  and  love  to  her  aunt,  and  there  had  come  a  time 
when  they  had  not  been  wanted  of  her,  had  been 
thrown  back  in  her  face.  No,  she  had  not  failed;  she 
could  not  have  merged  herself  in  the  flow  of  shallow 
pleasure-seeking  without  going  against  every  prompt- 
ing of  her  nature.  Her  conscience  was  clear. 

Of  the  final  break  she  did  not  want  to  think  too 
much.  There  had  been  a  man  whom  her  sane  clean 
instinct  had  warned  her  to  beware  of.  He  had  paid 
court  to  her,  and  she  had  thought  that  she  would  have 
her  aunt's  sympathy  in  rejecting  his  advances.  Lady 
Bridgeworth  had  been  angry  about  it  in  a  curious 
sort  of  way  which  Olivia  had  not  understood.  She  had 
boldly  attacked  the  man  himself  in  Olivia's  presence, 
which  had  caused  Olivia  shame  and  distress.  Then 
she  had  suddenly  turned  upon  her  and  accused  her  of 
encouraging  him.  And  after  that  she  had  gone  on 
welcoming  the  man  to  her  house.  Even  now,  as  her 
mind  shrinkingly  shirked  the  memory  of  those  pain- 
ful scenes,  a  deep  blush  spread  itself  over  Olivia's  face 
and  neck,  and  she  made  a  little  gesture  with  her  hand, 


OLIVIA  115 

putting  it  all  away  from  her.  She  knew  that  if  she 
probed  into  it  she  would  find  something  that  would 
stain  her  mind,  which  already  seemed  soiled  by  such 
contacts.  She  would  not  think  of  it  at  all.  It  was 
enough  that  it  had  brought  about  the  end  of  her  com- 
panionship with  her  aunt,  and  whether  she  had  first 
said  that  she  must  go  back  home,  or  her  aunt  had 
said  that  she  did  not  want  her  with  her  any  longer, 
she  could  not  remember.  In  any  case  she  could  not 
have  stayed. 

She  rose,  and  walked  a  few  times  up  and  down  the 
shabby-carpeted  room  that  was  so  dear  to  her,  and 
then  sat  down  again  by  the  window  to  consider  the 
pleasanter  future.  The  past  was  done  with.  If  she 
had  failed  in  what  she  had  undertaken,  as  little  more 
than  a  child,  the  fault  lay  not  in  her.  And  she  knew 
that  she  would  not  fail  in  what  lay  before  her  now. 
Her  duty  and  her  happiness  would  be  one,  and  she 
smiled  as  her  heart  sprang  to  meet  the  joy  that  came 
flooding  into  it. 

She  had  always  loved  her  father  passionately.  He 
was  so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  good.  She  had  never  known 
her  mother,  and  she  had  never  missed  her.  He  had  in 
him  that  strain  of  tenderness  that  had  enabled  him  to 
fulfil  the  part  of  both  parents  to  her.  f>he  remembered 
little  things  that  he  had  done  for  her  when  she  had 
been  a  tiny  child,  and  the  time  when  it  had  begun  to 
come  home  to  her  that  he  depended  on  her  for  his 
happiness  almost  as  much  as  she  depended  upon  him. 
She  remembered  no  time  when  he  had  as  much  as  re- 
buked her.  That  was  partly  because  she  had  been 
'  good '  as  a  child,  but  partly  also  because  he  had  al- 


116  WATERMEADS 

lowed  her  independence  of  mind  full  scope  from  the 
earliest  years.  Certainly,  in  spite  of  her  '  goodness,' 
she  would  not  altogether  have  escaped  rebuke  from 
her  mother,  if  she  had  been  alive,  nor  from  any  woman 
who  might  have  been  concerned  in  her  upbringing. 
But  she  had  felt  at  an  early  age  that,  with  so  much 
trust  given,  it  rested  with  her  to  direct  her  activities, 
of  mind  and  body,  into  such  channels  as  would  please 
the  father  who  loved  her  so.  With  perhaps  most 
children  such  freedom  as  she  enjoyed  would  have  been 
a  dangerous  experiment.  With  her  it  had  succeeded. 

She  felt  some  compunction  now  when  she  remem- 
bered that  it  had  been  her  own  decision  to  leave  her 
father  and  go  to  her  aunt.  Lady  Bridgeworth  had 
asked  for  her,  and  her  father  had  left  it  to  her  to 
decide.  He  had  not  even  advised  her ;  it  was  as  if 
he  trusted  her  judgment,  at  seventeen,  in  such  a  mat- 
ter, more  than  he  trusted  his  own.  But  perhaps  she 
ought  to  have  insisted  on  his  advice,  ought  at  least 
to  have  given  more  weight  to  the  strength  of  her  love 
for  him.  She  had  been  too  allured  by  the  chance  of- 
fered to  her  of  creating  happiness  for  one  who  was 
in  trouble;  and  she  had  been  partially  blinded  to  her 
father's  share  in  the  surrender  because  she  had  found 
it  difficult  to  make  it  herself  on  his  account.  She  had 
left  him  alone  for  nearly  three  years,  and  she  had  not 
succeeded  in  her  task.  Well,  that  was  all  over  and 
done  with;  she  would  not  dwell  on  it.  She  had  come 
back  to  him  now,  and  knew,  as  she  might  not  have 
known  if  she  had  always  stayed  with  him  in  their 
quiet  home,  how  greatly  blessed  she  was  in  it. 

There  would  be  a  round  of  daily  duties,  very  dif- 


OLIVIA  117 

ferent  from  any  she  had  had  to  perform  while  living 
with  her  aunt,  but  much  more  worth  doing  in  their 
loving  servitude  than  those  fetchings  and  carryings 
and  waiting  upon  another's  whims.  She  would  be  her 
own  mistress,  and  smiled  to  herself,  wondering  how 
much  that  accounted  for  her  eager  anticipations  of 
pleasure.  There  would  be  a  scarcity  of  money.  Many 
things  that  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  she  would 
have  no  longer.  But  she  knew  she  could  do  without 
them.  She  had  never  allowed  herself  to  become  de- 
pendent upon  luxury,  though  she  had  accepted  it,  as 
most  young  people  do  when  it  comes  in  their  way. 
The  constant  changes  she  had  enjoyed,  travelling  here 
and  there  to  one  interesting  place  after  another, 
though  never  to  England,  would  be  hers  no  longer. 
But  the  changes  had  been  too  many,  and  she  rested 
in  the  thought  of  this  peaceful  home,  in  which  the 
sweet  succession  of  seasons  would  bring  her  enough 
of  change,  and  the  feeling  of  security  and  permanence 
would  deepen. 

And  all  the  quiet  texture  of  her  life  would  be  shot 
through  with  the  gold  of  her  father's  love  for  her  and 
hers  for  him.  She  would  devote  herself  to  him,  not 
only  in  the  loving  companionship  which  would  be  the 
chief  pleasure  of  her  life,  but  with  care  and  fore- 
thought, and  study  of  his  tastes  and  his  ways,  sur- 
rendering some  of  her  own  if  that  should  be  necessary. 
She  thought  that  she  was  too  apt  to  follow  her  own 
way,  and  she  knew  that  if  she  did  so  she  would  meet 
with  no  hint  of  resistance  from  him.  He  would  be 
only  too  ready  to  give  up  anything  to  please  her.  It 
would  be  a  contest  between  them  as  to  which  should 


118  WATERMEADS 

give  way  to  the  other,  and  she  would  have  to  be  very 
careful  not  to  let  him  see  that  she  was  giving  up  any- 
thing, if  she  should  find  that  their  desires  differed  at 
any  point. 

She  felt  quietly  but  intensely  happy  as  she  sat  by 
the  window  at  the  sweet  beginning  of  the  summer  day, 
at  the  beginning  of  her  new  life.  The  troubles  of  a 
difficult  duty  lay  behind  her;  what  was  coming  in  this 
sheltered  home,  remote  in  the  verdurous  fastness  of  the 
English  country  from  all  the  fret  and  worry  of  cities 
and  the  unrestful  claims  of  pleasure,  held  no  diffi- 
culties, but  only  the  rich  sense  of  love  and  protection 
given  and  returned.  The  birds  sang  to  her  of  life  and 
happiness,  of  the  beauty  of  the  world,  of  the  good- 
ness and  Tightness  that  wrapped  her  round.  She  could 
almost  have  wept  for  the  delight  of  it  all.  There  was 
no  shadow  on  the  lovely  day,  nor  any  on  her  young 
mind. 

After  a  time  she  went  back  to  bed  again.  She  was 
tired  from  her  long  journey,  and  her  sleep  had  been 
broken  through  the  night.  She  did  not  awake  until 
the  maid  came  into  her  room  with  a  breakfast  tray. 
Then  she  was  deeply  distressed  to  find  that  it  was  nine 
o'clock. 

Her  father  breakfasted  at  eight,  and  began  his 
morning  work  with  Bobby  and  Billy  at  nine  punctually. 
She  had  looked  forward  to  giving  him  his  breakfast 
and  going  round  the  garden  with  him  before  he  settled 
to  his  work,  as  she  had  always  done  before  she  had 
left  home  three  years  before.  And  she  had  told 
Fanny,  who  now  came  up  smiling  with  her  breakfast, 
that  she  was  to  be  called  at  seven. 


OLIVIA  119 

Fanny  was  a  young  girl  from  the  village,  in  her 
first  place.  Olivia  suspected  that  she  had  been  en- 
gaged exclusively  to  wait  upon  her,  for  she  had  not 
been  able  to  discover  that  there  had  been  any  servants 
at  the  Vicarage  since  her  departure  but  the  man  and 
his  wife  who  had  sufficed  for  her  father,  both  for  the 
house  and  garden.  She  had  had  her  own  old  nurse, 
who  had  stayed  on  as  she  grew  older,  but  died  soon 
after  she  had  left  England.  The  married  couple  had 
come  since.  She  had  not  particularly  taken  to  the 
wife,  and  had  had  no  time  to  question  her  as  to  new. 
arrangements  that  had  been  made.  But  it  went  ill 
with  her  ideas  as  to  the  place  she  would  herself  fill 
in  the  house  that  her  coming  should  involve  extra 
service.  She  intended  to  make  her  father  much  bet- 
ter served  by  the  things  she  would  do  herself. 

"  The  Vicar  said  I  wasn't  to  wake  you,  Miss,  till 
nine  o'clock,"  said  Fanny,  smiling  largely.  "  I  was 
to  get  you  as  nice  a  breakfast  as  I  could,  and  I  hope 
you'll  think  I  done  it  well,  and  oh,  Miss,  I  do  hope 
you'll  let  me  unpack  and  put  your  things  away  for 
you.  I'll  wash  my  'ands,  and  not  dirty  nothing,  and 
I'll  be  ever  so  careful  to  do  what  you  tell  me."  She 
put  down  the  breakfast  tray  and  clasped  her  hands. 
"  And  oh,  Miss,  if  I  could  do  your  'air ! "  she  said 
ecstatically. 

Fanny  had  been  a  protegee  of  Olivia's  in  her  child- 
hood. She  was  sixteen  now,  and  immensely  proud  of 
the  trust  imposed  upon  her.  Olivia  had  always  been 
her  idol — so  pretty  and  graceful,  and  gentle  and  kind, 
though  authoritative  too  over  the  village  girls  who 
had  been  in  her  Sunday  school  class  and  come  in  con- 


120  WATERMEADS 

tact  with  her  otherwise.  Now,  in  addition  to  the 
charm  she  had  possessed  before,  she  had  for  Fanny 
that  of  a  great  lady,  fitly  surrounded  by  beautiful 
and  expensive  *  things,'  an  object  to  be  waited  upon, 
and  saved  from  all  rude  contact  with  household  or  even 
personal  labour.  Mrs.  Morrow,  the  cook,  also  had 
some  such  idea  of  her  floating  in  her  mind.  She  was 
anxious  to  save  her  all  household  worries,  and  anxious 
also  to  keep  in  her  own  hands  the  not  unprofitable 
task  of  domestic  provision. 

Olivia  would  have  to  begin  by  combating  at  least 
one  of  these  ideas.  As  to  Fanny,  she  was  not  quite 
sure.  It  would  be  hard  to  send  the  girl  away  for  no 
fault  of  her  own,  when  she  had  just  come  and  was  so 
anxious  to  acquit  herself  well.  It  might  be  possible 
to  keep  her,  if  she  should  find  that  domestic  economy 
would  permit. 

"  Listen,  Fanny,"  she  said.  "  I  shan't  want  waiting 
on  in  that  way  at  all.  I  must  have  my  breakfast  up 
here  this  morning,  because  I  have  overslept  myself,  but 
you  must  always  call  me  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  fu- 
ture, as  I  told  you  last  night.  Perhaps  you  shall  help 
me  put  away  my  clothes  this  morning,  as  I  don't  sup- 
pose your  other  work  has  been  settled  yet;  but  what 
I  shall  want  you  to  do,  if  you  stay,  is  to  learn  to  do 
things  downstairs.  I  will  try  to  train  you  into  a 
good  parlour-maid,  and  you  must  do  all  you  can  to 
learn  quickly,  so  that  you  may  be  able  to  take  service 
in  a  bigger  house  when  you  are  older." 

Fanny's  face  fell  during  this  speech,  of  which  the 
words  *  if  you  stay  '  sounded  an  ominous  knell.  "  The 
Vicar  said  I  was  to  wait  on  you,  Miss,"  she  said,  al- 


OLIVIA  121 

most  in  tears,  "  and  I  know  I  couldn't  do  what  the 
French  maids  could  as  you've  had — not  at  first — but 
I'm  quick  to  learn,  and  I  thought  you'd  teach  me  to 
do  that.  I  wouldn't  want  to  do  it  for  nobody  but 
you,  Miss,  and  I  do  hope  you  won't  send  me  away 
without  a  trial." 

"  Look  here,  Fanny,"  said  Olivia  kindly,  "  I  must 
let  you  into  a  little  secret.  My  father  wants  to  spoil 
me.  He  knows  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  waiting  on 
while  I  have  been  abroad,  and  he  thinks  I  shall  not 
be  happy  at  home  if  I  don't  have  it  here.  But  I  don't 
want  that  kind  of  waiting  on.  You  shall  help  me,  of 
course,  if  I  do  want  a  little  help  with  my  clothes,  but 
where  you  can  really  help  me  is  in  waiting  upon  him, 
and  making  him  comfortable.  Only  he  mustn't  know 
we're  doing  it,  or  he  won't  like  it.  So  don't  say  any- 
thing about  it  to  anybody.  We'll  talk  together  over 
what  we  can  do,  and  it  is  to  be  a  secret  between  us. 
And  of  course  I  shan't  send  you  away  if  you  do  well." 

Fanny  brightened.  She  was  enough  of  a  child  still 
to  be  enchanted  at  sharing  such  a  secret  with  her 
young  mistress ;  and  to  do  something  for  the  beloved 
Vicar  was  only  a  little  less  inspiring  than  to  do  some- 
thing for  his  daughter.  Olivia  kept  her  with  her  while 
she  ate  her  breakfast,  and  learnt  enough  to  persuade 
her  that  there  was  a  good  deal  in  the  house  and  its 
managing  that  wanted  altering,  and  to  be  more  than 
ever  thankful  that  she  had  come  back  to  look  after 
her  father. 

Before  she  had  finished  dressing,  Fanny  came  up 
again  to  say  that  Elsie  and  Rose  Conway  had  come 
to  see  her.  She  sent  for  them  to  her  room,  and  the 


122  WATERMEADS 

greeting  of  the  three   girls   was  like   that   of  sisters 
long  parted. 

They  had,  in  truth,  scarcely  been  parted  until 
Olivia  had  gone  abroad.  They  had  played  together, 
and  done  lessons  together,  and  Olivia  had  always  taken 
the  lead.  After  the  first  happy  greetings,  Elsie  and 
Rose  assumed,  probably  quite  unaware  of  it,  a  slightly 
watchful  attitude  towards  Olivia.  They  thought  them- 
selves entirely  unchanged  from  what  they  had  been, 
except  that  their  hair  was  *  up"  and  their  skirts  were 
down.  But  they  thought  her  much  changed,  though 
not  the  less  dear  to  them  on  that  account.  Her  toilet 
table  was  arrayed  with  silver,  for  her  aunt  had  been 
generous  to  her,  especially  at  the  first,  and  given  her 
many  presents.  And  the  daintiness  of  her  clothes  was 
far  in  excess  of  anything  that  even  their  fully  paid-up 
allowances  had  made  possible  for  themselves.  Her  hair 
was  beautifully  done,  too,  in  a  way  that  betokened  fa- 
miliarity with  fashion  that  had  hardly  come  into  their 
ken,  and  she  looked  older  and  more  self-possessed  than 
her  years,  although  still  in  the  first  sweet  bloom  of  her 
womanhood.  They  seemed  to  themselves  to  be  coun- 
try bumpkins  beside  her,  the  contrast  greater  than  it 
had  been  between  them  and  the  smart  young  women 
whom  they  had  recently  met  at  Prittlewell,  and  far 
beyond  that  afforded  by  their  friends  in  the  rectories 
and  vicarages  around.  The  doubt  in  their  minds  was 
whether  Olivia  had  not  got  beyond  them  as  a  friend. 
In  the  state  of  poverty  in  which  they  lived  at  Water- 
meads  they  were  not  without  experience  of  the  cold- 
shoulder  given  to  them  by  girls  better  endowed  than 
themselves,  from  country  houses  which  should  have 


OLIVIA  123 

contained  none  but  intimate  friends  of  the  Conways. 
They  were  a  little  sensitive  about  pushing  themselves 
in  where  they  were  not  wanted,  as  they  expressed  it. 
Olivia,  as  the  daughter  of  the  dear  old  Vicar,  and  their 
own  one-time  playmate,  was  their  natural  affinity;  but 
Olivia,  the  niece  of  her  fashionable  aunt,  greatly  de- 
veloped in  appearance,  and  possibly  '  Frenchified,' 
might  prove  to  be  a  different  person. 

Olivia  soon  set  their  doubts  at  rest.  She  was  over- 
joyed at  seeing  these  two  dear  girls  again,  the  friends 
she  would  have  chosen  for  her  own  girlhood  even  if 
proximity  had  left  her  a  choice.  She  thought  them 
nearly  as  little  altered  as  they  thought  themselves, 
though  Rose  was  even  more  beautiful  than  she  had 
given  promise  of  being,  and  Elsie  also  grown  into  a 
pretty  graceful  girl,  only  not  to  be  considered  un- 
usually so  because  she  was  hardly  ever  to  be  seen  with- 
out Rose  by  her  side.  They  made  her  feel  much 
younger  herself,  for  she  had  thought  of  herself  as  old 
and  mature  for  a  long  time  past,  having  seldom  en- 
joyed much  of  the  society  of  girls  of  her  own  age,  and 
having  touched  experiences  that  these  friends  of  hers 
had  been  spared. 

They  were  all  three  soon  laughing  and  chattering 
together  as  in  the  old  days,  and  Olivia  had  banished 
for  ever  the  fear  that  she  might  come  home  changed  to 
them.  She  showed  them  her  *  things,'  and  made  it 
quite  clear  that  such  of  them  as  were  costly  would  have 
to  last  her  a  long  time,  for  she  would  have  no  chance 
of  replacing,  them,  unless  her  aunt  sent  her  an  occa- 
sional present.  "  But  I  don't  think  she  will,"  she 
said.  "  She  liked  to  see  me  smart  when  I  was  with 


124  WATERMEADS 

her,  but  I'm  afraid  she  won't  mind  what  I  look  like 
when  I'm  out  of  her  sight." 

Looked  at  in  this  way,  Olivia's  *  things  '  were  seen 
to  be  lucky  accidents  such  as  might  come  to  any  girl, 
and  not  part  of  her  at  all.  She  was  really  just  the 
same,  and  as  interested  as  before  in  questions  of 
economy,  such  as  had  often  exercised  their  wits  in  the 
past.  She  drew  from  them  their  opinion  of  Mrs.  Mor- 
row, and  decided  upon  their  information  and  advice  to 
get  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  might  be.  And  then  she  had 
to  hear  all  about  affairs  at  Watermeads,  and  heard 
more  intimate  details  than  would  have  been  given  to 
anyone  but  her. 

"  Dear  Olivia,"  said  Rose  affectionately,  when  she 
was  ready  to  go  downstairs,  "  you're  not  a  bit  altered. 
I  wonder  how  we've  managed  to  do  without  you  for 
so  long." 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH 

THE  three  girls  ran  downstairs  in  the  happiest 
harmony  with  one  another.  Olivia  felt  almost  a  child 
again,  so  refreshing  was  it  to  return  to  girls'  ways 
and  girls'  speech  with  these  two  old  friends,  who  had 
been  waiting  for  her  in  the  quiet  country  with  all  the 
freshness  and  simplicity  of  their  youth  still  clinging  to 
them,  while  she  had  been  getting  older  in  gay  foreign 
resorts.  It  was  an  added  pleasure  to  her  home-com- 
ing to  have  them  there  to  confide  in  and  to  consult 
with.  Their  love  for  her  father  was  only  less  than  her 
own,  and  their  interest  in  her  plans  for  the  future, 
both  as  regarded  his  welfare  and  her  new  position  as 
mistress  of  the  Vicarage,  was  almost  as  eager  as  her 
own. 

She  hesitated  as  to  whether  she  should  disturb  the 
serious  occupations  in  the  study  by  a  visit  of  greet- 
ing. 

"  I  shouldn't  go  in  now  if  I  were  you,"  said  Elsie. 
"  Nobody  else  is  ever  allowed  to  unless  it's  absolutely 
necessary,  and  the  boys  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
interval  at  eleven." 

It  was  already  half  past  ten,  and  Olivia  reluctantly 
accepted  Elsie's  advice,  half  hoping  that  her  father 
would  come  out  to  her  when  he  heard  her  voice.  But 
the  study  door  remained  closed,  and  the  girls  went  into 
the  drawing-room, 

125 


126  WATERMEADS 

It  was  a  charming  old-fashioned  room,  rather  long 
and  very  Jow,  with  a  French  window  opening  on  to  a 
little  retired  space  of  lawn  ringed  round  with  lilacs, 
and  spreading  limes  behind  them.  It  had  not  been 
used  since  the  death  of  Olivia's  mother.  It  smelt 
damp,  and  the  wall-paper  was  discoloured  and  some 
of  the  pictures  spotted.  The  furniture  seemed  strange 
to  Olivia,  for  it  had  always  been  covered  up.  It  was 
good  of  its  kind,  though  most  of  it  *  Victorian '  in 
taste.  Her  father  had  told  her  that  she  was  to  use 
this  as  her  own  room.  He  had  had  it  put  into  some  sort 
of  order,  but  she  was  to  choose  a  new  wall-paper  for 
herself,  and  make  any  other  rearrangement  that  she 
wished,  with  money  that  he  would  give  her  for 
the  purpose.  So  it  was  her  own  kingdom  that  she  was 
surveying  with  Elsie  and  Rose,  who  expressed  friendly 
envy  of  so  delightful  a  toy  as  a  pretty  room  to  be  ar- 
ranged and  used  as  she  wished. 

They  were  deep  in  plannings  when  to  their  surprise 
and  somewhat  to  their  discomfiture  the  door  was 
opened  and  a  visitor  announced  by  Fanny,  to  whom 
Olivia  had  already  imparted  some  instruction  as  to 
the  duties  she  would  have  to  fulfil  as  parlour-maid. 

The  visitor  was  the  Reverend  Edward  Probert,  who 
had  come  over  from  his  Rectory  of  Lutterbourne  to 
see  the  Vicar  upon  some  clerical  matter,  and  who 
seemed  at  least  as  surprised  to  find  himself  proudly 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  three  girls  as  they  were 
at  his  appearance.  However,  he  had  been  introduced 
to  Elsie  and  Rose  at  the  Watermeads  cricket-match, 
and  not  being  particularly  subject  to  shyness  sup- 
ported the  ordeal  of  introduction  to  Olivia  very  well. 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  127 

This  young  man,  besides  possessing  advantages  of 
person,  had  a  pleasant  and  easy  manner,  which  was 
rapidly  making  him  a  popular  member  of  the  county 
society  that  lay  about  his  new  sphere  of  influence. 
Furthermore,  Lutterbourne  was  a  *  good '  living,  with 
a  fine  house  and  garden,  far  in  excess  of  the  needs  of 
a  bachelor,  and  its  rector  was  known  to  be  well  off 
besides,  and  to  be  destined  for  considerable  wealth  in 
the  future,  with  a  baronetcy  thrown  in.  All  this  did 
not  make  him  the  less  popular,  in  a  neighbourhood 
where  there  was  a  good  supply  of  marriageable  girls, 
and  Lady  Sophia  Raine's  prophecy  that  he  would  very 
speedily  be  *  snapped-up,'  seemed  likely  to  be  fulfilled, 
always  supposing  him  to  be  willing  to  undergo  the 
process.  Elsie  and  Rose  had  heard  echoes  of  this  kind 
of  talk,  and  immediately  connected  him,  and  perhaps 
his  visit,  with  their  beloved  Olivia.  They  watched  her 
behaving  towards  him  with  a  self-possessed  and  yet 
girlish  charm  which  made  them  proud  of  their  recov- 
ered friend,  and  they  sought  in  him  signs,  as  they  ad- 
mitted to  one  another  afterwards,  that  he  was  struck 
by  so  much  grace  and  beauty.  Surely  he  must  be — 
from  the  first!  However  accustomed  he  might  be  to 
meeting  with  beautiful  girls  of  the  most  finished  man- 
ners, Olivia  must  be  something  quite  exceptional. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  hint  of  jealousy  in  their 
whole-hearted  admiration  of  her,  nor  any  thought  of 
themselves  in  their  eager  desire  that  this  attractive 
young  man  should  exhibit  himself  as  sharing  it.  They 
were  both  match-makers  on  the  instant.  It  would  be 
splendid  if,  almost  on  the  moment  of  her  arrival, 


128  WATERMEADS 

Olivia  should  be  fallen  in  love  with  and  translated 
again  to  a  wider  sphere. 

But  it  must  be  confessed  that  Edward  Probert 
showed  himself  somewhat  disconcertingly  impervious  to 
Olivia's  charms.  Neither  Elsie  nor  Rose  could  affirm, 
when  they  came  to  talk  it  over  together,  any  more 
than  that  he  must  have  seen  how  beautiful  she  was, 
and  how  clever  and  charming,  and  perhaps  it  was  too 
much  to  expect  any  young  man  in  these  days  to  fall 
in  love  at  first  sight,  but  at  any  rate  it  was  quite 
to  be  expected  that  he  should  fall  in  love  with 
Olivia  when  he  came  to  know  her  better,  for  he 
could  have  seen  nobody  in  Meadshire  who  could 
touch  her.  That  he  had  paid  equal  attention  to 
them  as  to  her  made  them  like  him  all  the  more, 
for,  of  course,  they  were  very  different  from  Olivia. 
He  had  been  easy  to  get  on  with,  to  talk  to  and  to 
laugh  with.  If  he  did  fall  in  love  with  Olivia  and 
marry  her,  it  would  be  delightful  to  feel  that  her  hus- 
band was  a  friend  of  theirs  too,  and  that  she  would 
not  be  taken  away  from  them. 

They  went  into  the  garden  to  await  the  interval  of 
recreation,  and  at  eleven  o'clock  there  was  an  outrush 
of  Bobby  and  Billy,  on  their  way  to  a  private  corner 
where  they  were  accustomed  to  spend  their  leisure  with 
cricket  stumps  and  a  cricket  ball.  They  paused  when 
they  saw  the  little  group  of  three  girls  and  a  man  on 
the  lawn,  and  then  came  forward  to  greet  Olivia  po- 
litely as  an  old  friend,  but  one  who  had  grown  some- 
what beyond  their  ken.  Their  eyes  were  on  Edward 
Probert  as  they  did  so,  for  his  cricketing  fame  and 
prowess  had  impressed  their  young  minds,  and  he  was 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  129 

already  something  of  a  hero  to  them,  of  whom  they 
hoped  to  know  more. 

Olivia  went  in  to  her  father,  and  greatly  to  Bobby's 
and  Billy's  delight  Edward  Probert  accompanied  them 
to  their  pitch  and  took  off  his  coat  when  he  got  there 
to  share  in  their  practice  and  give  them  most  valuable 
hints.  Elsie  and  Rose  stood  by  until  they  were  joined 
by  the  Vicar,  with  Olivia's  arm  affectionately  in  his. 
Then  Probert  had  to  put  on  his  coat  again,  but  before 
lessons  were  resumed  he  had  promised  to  come  over  to 
Watermeads  that  afternoon,  which  was  a  half-holiday, 
for  practise  at  the  net.  Elsie  and  Rose,  as  they 
walked  home  along  the  river  and  across  the  park, 
agreed  that  it  was  extraordinary  nice  of  him  to  be  so 
kind  to  Bobby  and  Billy,  but  *  of  course  '  he  had  heard 
that  Olivia  was  coming  to  tea.  It  was  rather  clever 
of  him  to  have  found  such  an  excellent  excuse  for  com- 
ing, too. 

The  tea-party,  if  it  could  be  called  so,  was  some- 
thing of  an  ordeal  to  the  two  girls.  Mrs.  Conway  had 
what  they  were  accustomed  to  call  '  one  of  her  awk- 
ward fits.'  These  expressions  of  personality  took 
various  forms.  On  this  occasion  it  was  by  the  pride 
that  aped  humility.  Tea  at  the  big  round  table  in 
the  corner  of  the  great  hall,  with  windows  and  doors 
wide  open  to  admit  the  warm  summer  air  into  its  stone- 
bred  coolness,  was  an  occasion  that  no  one  need  feel 
the  least  ashamed  of.  But  it  would  have  been  so  easy 
to  make  some  little  alteration  in  the  habitual  family 
meal,  in  honour  of  guests ;  and  their  mother  would  not 
hear  of  any  alteration  being  made  at  all.  The  table- 
cloth was  in  the  middle  of  its  weekly  career,  and  she 


130  WATERMEADS 

would  not  have  a  clean  one  provided.  The  cake,  re- 
duced to  a  giant  wedge,  would  be  replaced  on  the  mor- 
row, and  its  replacement  could  easily  have  been  antici- 
pated; but  she  would  not  allow  orders  to  be  given  to 
that  effect.  Nor  would  she  permit  butter  to  be  pro- 
vided, nor  even  two  sorts  of  jam.  At  each  request 
her  determination  stiffened  to  allow  no  difference  to  be 
made  of  any  kind.  "  The  Vicar  knows  how  we  live," 
she  said,  "  and  if  our  way  of  living  is  good  enough  for 
him  it  is  good  enough  for  Olivia;  and  if  it  is  not,  the 
sooner  she  learns  that  no  difference  can  be  made  on 
her  account  the  better.  As  for  Mr.  Probert,  who  has 
invited  himself,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  let  him  see 
for  himself.  Let  him  see  that  decent  poverty  is  not 
a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  that  those  who  are 
forced  to  practise  it  are  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"  But,  mother  dear,  just  a  few  scones  and  some 
toast  and  a  little  butter!  Rose  and  I  can  make  them, 
and  you  needn't  bother  about  it  at  all." 

"  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  you  and  Rose  can  make 
butter,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Conway  with  withering 
emphasis, — "  or  at  least  without  using  cream,  which, 
as  you  know  very  well,  has  to  be  paid  for.  And  what 
are  scones  or  toast  without  butter?  I  am  determined 
to  put  down  extravagance  in  this  house,  and  to  live 
on  dry  bread  and  water,  if  necessary,  in  order  to  re- 
lieve ourselves  of  this  dreadful  incubus  of  debt.  Let 
me  not  hear  another  word  upon  the  subject." 

Elsie  and  Rose  accepted  the  decision,  well  knowing 
that  with  their  mother  in  this  mood  it  was  useless  to 
press  her  any  further.  They  could  at  least  see  that 
the  table  was  well  supplied  with  flowers,  and  went  out 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  131 

to  pick  them,  but  without  saying  anything  about  it, 
as  Mrs.  Conway  was  quite  capable  of  forbidding  even 
that  inexpensive  form  of  luxury. 

Penelope,  who  had  been  a  silent  witness  of  the  en- 
counter, followed  them  into  the  garden.  "  Really,  I 
think  mother  is  getting  beyond  everything,"  she  said. 
"  But  I  will  get  her  to  let  you  make  some  scones  if 
you  like." 

"  You  are  not  to  talk  like  that  about  mother,"  said 
Elsie. 

"  How  would  you  get  her  to  let  us  make  some 
scones  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

"  I  should  tell  her  that  Mr.  Probert  might  fall  in 
love  with  you  or  Elsie  if  he  is  properly  treated,"  said 
Penelope.  "  Lady  Sophia  told  mother  that  he " 

"  You  horrid  little  creature !  "  Elsie  interrupted  her. 
"  You  get  worse  and  worse.  Go  away.  We  don't 
want  you  with  us." 

"  I  think  I  shall  ask  cookie  to  make  some  scones," 
said  Penelope.  "  Jack  Kirby  gave  me  a  box  of  choc- 
olate once.  Mr.  Probert  might  do  it  too." 

She  walked  away.  Elsie  and  Rose  agreed  that  she 
was  becoming  more  and  more  impossible  every  day. 

When  they  got  indoors  again,  however,  they  found 
that  their  mother  had  *  come  round '  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. Penelope  denied  having  said  anything  at  all  on 
the  subject  to  her,  but  was  ready  with  the  reason  for 
the  change.  "  Dad  is  the  Squire,  and  Mr.  Bonner  is 
the  Vicar,"  she  said.  "  If  we  don't  have  a  clean  table- 
cloth Mr.  Probert  will  think  Olivia  is  better  than  you." 

Oh,  the  odious  child !  How  did  she  come  to  have 
these  horrible,  but  penetrating  ideas,  at  her  age? 


132  WATERMEADS 

Whatever  Mrs.  Conway's  reasons  for  providing  the 
clean  tablecloth,  with  toast,  scones,  butter,  a  new  cake, 
and  two  kinds  of  jam  to  put  upon  it,  in  silver  and 
china  that  were  at  least  as  fine  as  any  that  could  have 
been  provided  at  any  of  the  houses  around,  she  was 
not  prepared  to  relinquish  her  attitude  of  proud  hu- 
mility. 

"  This  must  be  very  different  from  anything  that 
you  have  been  accustomed  to,  Olivia,"  she  said ;  "  and 
indeed  it  is  different  from  anything  that  7  was  ac- 
customed to  in  my  earlier  years.  If  you  have  not 
learnt  already,  Mr.  Probert,  that  an  extreme,  but  I 
hope  decent,  poverty,  is  what  must  be  expected  in  this 
house,  you  will  find  plenty  of  people  to  tell  you.  I 
make  no  difference  in  our  ordinary  way  of  living  when 
we  have  the  good  fortune  to  receive  guests.  People 
must  take  us  as  we  are  and  make  the  best  of  us.  Do 
you  have  two  lumps  of  sugar,  or  one,  or  none  ?  " 

Pr"obert  felt  inclined  to  say  none,  but  in  view  of  the 
comparatively  low  price  of  cube  sugar,  asked  for 
three,  which  put  Mrs.  Conway  in  a  good  humour  with 
him.  She  confided  to  him  towards  the  end  of  the  meal, 
that  although  things  were  difficult  for  her  as  mistress 
of  a  large  house,  with  a  reduced  income,  it  was  always 
a  pleasure  to  her  to  see  friends  at  her  tea  table,  and 
a  great  many  of  them  constantly  availed  themselves 
of  her  simple  hospitality.  "  We  shall  always  be 
pleased  to  see  you,  Mr.  Probert,  whenever  you  like  to 
come,"  she  said.  "  Indeed,  we  are  very  glad  to  wel- 
come you  to  the  neighbourhood.  I  believe  my  husband 
has  already  called  upon  you,  or  if  he  has  not,  I  know 
that  he  has  had  every  intention  of  doing  so.  You  will 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  133 

not  expect  formal  invitations  from  us,  but  we  have  a 
tennis-lawn  and  a  cricket-field,  and  shall  be  delighted 
to  see  you  playing  games  upon  them  whenever  you 
feel  inclined  to  do  so." 

Probert  made  suitable  acknowledgments  of  this 
gracious  invitation,  and  his  promise  to  take  Mrs.  Con- 
way  at  her  word  was  made  in  no  mere  spirit  of 
formality.  Sydney  Conway  had  had  his  eye  on  him, 
while  talking  chiefly  to  Olivia,  and  when  they  went  out 
into  the  garden  made  himself  pleasant,  as  he  well 
knew  how.  He  understood  so  well  the  ways  and 
thoughts  of  young  men,  provided  they  were  of  the 
pattern  of  this  one,  to  which  he  also  had  belonged  in 
his  youth.  And  youth  had  never  seemed  far  away 
from  him,  though  he  was  now  over  fifty.  He  had  more 
to  talk  about  to  a  young  man  between  twenty  and 
thirty  than  to  a  contemporary  of  his  own.  His  own 
active  life  had  practically  come  to  an  end  when  he  had 
been  about  Probert's  age.  He  seemed  to  the  young 
man  to  be  very  much  in  the  swim,  and  to  be  singularly 
ill-mated  with  the  odd  and  rather  formidable  lady  who 
had  discoursed  to  him  over  the  tea-table.  Perhaps 
Sydney  had  wished  to  correct  any  impression  that 
might  have  scared  so  eligible  a  young  man  away  from 
the  house;  but  it  is  certain,  also,  that  he  liked  to  see 
and  talk  to  young  men  '  of  the  right  sort.' 

Nevertheless,  he  pressed  Probert  to  make  up  a  four 
at  tennis  with  the  three  girls,  instead  of  accompany- 
ing him  and  Bobby  and  Billy  to  the  cricket-field. 
"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  he  said  confidentially,  as 
he  went  off  with  the  disappointed  boys  on  either  side 
of  him,  "  that  you're  too  young  and  I'm  too  old  for 


134  WATERMEADS 

Mr.  Probert  to  be  very  anxious  for  our  society ;  and 
when  a  person  comes  to  your  house,  you  know,  you've 
got  to  see  that  he  gets  the  amusement  that  he  wants, 
not  what  you  want." 

Bobby  and  Billy,  who  found  their  father's  advanced 
age  no  bar  to  the  most  enjoyable  intercourse  that 
came  within  their  experience,  and  had  stood  by  while 
he  had  talked  to  Probert  as  if  they  were  two  young 
men  together,  protested  at  this.  "  I  expect  he'd 
rather  practise  with  us  than  play  tennis  with  three 
girls,"  said  Bobby. 

His  father  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
smiled  down  at  him.  "  When  you  are  as  old  as  he  is, 
my  son,"  he  said,  "  you  may  perhaps  discover  that 
there's  no  particular  hardship  in  playing  tennis  with 
three  girls." 

"  If  you  had  played  it  would  have  been  all  right," 
said  Billy  loyally.  "  They  did  want  you  to." 

"  Oh,  me !  said  Sydney.  "  Well,  when  you  get  to 
my  age  of  course  you'd  rather  play  cricket  with  two 
boys — especially  if  they're  your  own,  you  know." 

Bobby  and  Billy  thought  this  quite  natural,  though 
the  way  in  which  it  was  said  was  pleasing  to  them. 
Not  many  '  chaps  '  had  fathers  with  whom  they  were 
so  completely  at  ease  as  they  were  with  theirs.  They 
had  found  that  out  already,  though  their  experience 
of  '  chaps  '  of  their  own  age  was  as  yet  comparatively 
small. 

But  Sydney  would  very  much  have  preferred  to 
have  been  one  of  the  party  on  the  tennis-lawn.  It 
made  him  feel  a  little  sad  that,  in  spite  of  the  youth 
that  was  still  in  him,  he  must  not  consider  himself  a 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  135 

welcome  participant  in  the  intimate  amusements  of 
young  people.  It  was  true  that  his  own  dear  girls 
would  always  be  as  pleased  to  play  in  a  game  with  him 
as  with  any  young  man — at  present;  and  he  had 
got  back  to  his  old  terms  with  Olivia,  who  had  taken 
the  same  view  of  him  as  a  playmate  as  Elsie  and  Rose. 
All  three  of  them  had  pressed  him  to  make  one  of 
the  four,  and  had  meant  it.  Probert  had  pressed  him 
too,  and  had  not  meant  it,  or  so  he  thought.  It  was 
hardly  natural  that  he  should.  He  had  already  be- 
gun to  address  himself  to  establishing  relations  with 
the  three  pretty  young  girls.  He  might  be  content  to 
talk  about  cricket  and  other  common  interests  to  a 
man  much  older  than  himself,  when  there  was  no  get- 
ting away  from  his  society;  but,  for  free  enjoyment, 
the  older  man  must  be  out  of  the  way.  However 
much  he  might  enjoy  the  happy  chatter  and  kind  ap- 
proaches of  youth,  they  were  no  longer  his  by  right; 
he  could  only  take  his  part  in  them  on  sufferance,  with 
his  own  children,  who  knew  him  and  loved  him.  With 
an  outsider,  his  presence  must  at  least  divert  the  flow. 
Sydney  had  long  since  decided  that  Elsie  and  Rose 
must  have  their  chance,  and  had  examined  himself 
upon  the  effect  that  it  would  have  upon  him  when 
young  men  should  begin  to  be  attracted  by  them.  In 
a  general  sort  of  way  he  rather  liked  the  idea.  The 
companionship  of  Elsie  and  Rose,  it  is  true,  was 
about  the  best  thing  that  his  life  contained  at  this  time. 
Fred  was  too  much  away,  and  Bobby  and  Billy  were 
too  young  for  them  to  count  as  much  to  him  in  his 
daily  life  as  the  girls  did.  The  friendship  between 
him  and  them,  apart  from  the  love  between  father  and 


136  WATERMEADS 

daughter,  upon  which  there  had  never  been  any  cloud 
from  the  earliest  years,  was  as  perfect  as  it  could  be 
in  such  a  relationship.  He  would  miss  them  horribly 
when  they  left  their  home.  But  he  knew  that  they 
would  not  love  him  less  when  they  came  to  take  hus- 
bands, and  it  was  one  of  the  penalties  of  fatherhood 
that  daughters  could  not  stay  at  home  for  ever,  and 
one  that  it  would  be  absurd  to  kick  against.  After 
all,  his  love  for  them  would  be  a  mean  and  selfish 
thing  if  it  did  not  lead  him  to  desire  their  happiness, 
even  at  his  own  expense.  Whatever  twinges  of 
jealousy  he  might  feel  when  the  young  men  began  to 
gather  round,  which  was  how  he  pictured  the  entrance 
of  Elsie  and  Rose  to  womanhood,  he  must  hide  them, 
and  give  the  girls  their  chance. 

Nevertheless,  when  Jack  Kirby  had  shown  himself 
attracted  by  Rose,  he  had  had  hard  work  to  keep  to 
his  preformed  intentions.  He  hated  the  freedom  with 
which  the  self-satisfied  rather  noisy  youth  came  and 
went,  and  the  little  trouble  he  took  to  hide  what  it 
was  that  he  came  for.  Jack  Kirby  paid  hardly  as 
much  attention  to  him  personally  as  would  show  that 
he  recognised  him  as  the  owner  of  a  house  in  which 
he  wished  to  make  himself  at  home.  No  doubt  he  con- 
sidered himself  so  much  of  a  *  catch '  that  he  could 
dispense  with  the  attention  that  a  young  man  at- 
tracted towards  a  girl  would  naturally  show  to  her 
father.  And,  no  doubt,  from  his  gold-plated  point  of 
view,  the  Squire  of  Watermeads,  in  its  decay,  was  a 
person  of  no  importance  whatever,  and  it  was  hardly 
worth  concealing  that  opinion.  Sydney  had  had  hard 
work  with  himself  to  refrain  from  behaving  towards 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  137 

him  as  the  autocratic  grumpy  parent  of  fiction,  and 
sending  him  about  his  business  with  a  flea  in  his  ear. 
Certainly  it  was  not  the  money  that  hung  about  the 
youth,  or  his  prospective  peerage,  that  held  him  back. 
It  was  the  strong  decision  he  had  come  to  that  when 
these  things  should  begin  to  happen  the  girls  must 
choose  for  themselves,  so  long  as  the  man  should  not 
be  objectionable  in  a  way  that  he  could  recognise  and 
they  could  not  be  expected  to.  Jack  Kirby  was  al- 
ways hovering  about  that  border-line,  but  Sydney 
could  not  say  to  himself  with  a  clear  conscience  that 
he  had  overstepped  it.  If  he  were  to  give  him 
brusquely  to  understand  that  Rose  was  not  for  him, 
he  could  not  justify  himself.  It  would  not  be  enough 
that  he  disliked  him  and  his  ways.  That  would  only 
be  showing  the  parental  jealousy  that  he  was  on  his 
guard  against. 

His  patience  under  the  tribulation  that  he  was  hid- 
ing from  all  about  him  was  made  easier,  perhaps  was 
only  made  possible,  by  the  idea  which  he  had  formed, 
that  Rose  was  not  so  taken  with  young  Kirby  as  he 
obviously  was  with  her.  He  had  watched  the  dear 
child,  closely  and  anxiously.  She  was  as  sweet  and 
loving  towards  himself  as  she  had  always  been,  and 
he  thought  that  if  she  had  opened  her  heart  to  a 
lover,  however  tentatively,  there  must  have  been  some 
difference  in  this  respect.  She  would  not  have  meant 
it,  or  even  known  it,  but  it  would  have  wounded  him 
sorely,  and  he  could  hardly  have  mistaken  the  signs. 
Perhaps  she  had  been  more  loving  towards  him  than 
usual,  and  once  or  twice  she  had  come  to  him  when  she 
might  have  gone  to  Jack  Kirby,  and  nestled  to  him,  al- 


138  WATERMEADS 

most  as  if  she  needed  to  assure  herself  of  his  tenderness 
towards  her.  This  had  been  balm  to  his  sore  heart. 
He  was  not  without  a  strong  hope  that  if  Jack  Kirby 
did  propose  marriage  to  Rose,  she  would  refuse  him, 
and  smiled  grimly  to  himself  as  he  contrasted  his  real 
desires  on  the  subject  with  those  with  which  he  was 
no  doubt  credited  on  all  hands. 

And  yet,  he  told  himself,  his  passionate  dislike  of 
Jack  Kirby  was  not  the  measure  of  his  feeling  to- 
wards a  prospective  husband  for  his  girls.  The  recep- 
tion he  had  given  to  his  wife's  disclosure  of  Bellamy's 
supposed  attitude  in  his  household  had  by  no  means 
represented  a  blindness  on  his  part  to  what  was  go- 
ing on.  She  had  long  since  ceased  to  share  any  of  his 
secret  thoughts,  although  she  thought  she  had  the  key 
to  them  all.  Bellamy,  as  the  possible  husband  of  one 
of  his  girls,  had  been  present  to  him  from  the  very 
beginning,  when  Mrs.  Conway  had  only  seen  in  him  a 
strange  artist;  but  he  had  not  become  sure  that  Bel- 
lamy really  wanted  anything  of  the  sort  when  she  had 
suddenly  convinced  herself  that  there  was  no  other  ex- 
planation of  his  continued  presence  at  Watermeads. 
Elsie  was  quite  as  dear  to  him  as  Rose,  and  was  even 
more  a  cherished  companion,  but  he  felt  none  of  the 
dislike  at  the  idea  of  her  falling  in  love  with  Bellamy 
that  he  felt  at  the  possibility  of  Rose  falling  in  love 
with  Jack  Kirby.  He  was  indeed  watching  with  some 
interest  for  signs  that  she  was  likely  to  do  so,  and  had 
not  yet  found  them.  He  would  hate  losing  her,  but 
she  would  gain  more  in  happiness  by  being  married 
to  the  right  sort  of  man  than  he  could  lose,  and  he 
thought  that  Bellamy  was  the  right  sort  of  man. 


THE  GIFT  OF  YOUTH  139 

As  for  this  young  parson — well,  it  was  early  days 
to  judge  yet,  and  if  he  had  come  for  anybody,  it  was 
probably  Olivia.  But  Sydney  would  have  been  ready 
to  stretch  a  few  points  in  his  favour,  if  it  had  been 
necessary,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  cut  out  Jack 
Kirby. 

All  the  same,  he  envied  him  that  priceless  gift  of 
youth  which  made  it  natural  that  he  should  make  up 
the  four  on  the  tennis-lawn,  and  took  off  his  coat  with 
a  sigh  to  bowl  to  Bobby  at  the  net. 


CHAPTER  xi 

LETTERS 

DEAREST  E.  and  R.  (wrote  Fred  to  his  sisters,  on  the 
day  following  the  dance  given  by  Mrs.  Blumenthal  at 
Hillstead)  : 

You  will  know  by  this  time  what  it  means  your  not 
getting  a  wire  from  me  this  morning.  I  feel  pretty 
beastly  about  it  all,  but  perhaps  it  will  buck  me  up 
a  bit  to  write  to  you.  It  isn't  all  over  by  any  means, 
and  I  shall  have  a  jolly  good  fight  for  it,  but  I  did 
so  hope  that  I  should  have  some  good  news  to  send 
you  this  morning,  dear  old  girls.  Life's  a  rum  busi- 
ness, isn't  it? 

The  dance  was  jolly  well  done.  There  was  a  great 
tent  leading  out  of  the  drawing-room  to  dance  in,  and 
heaps  of  flowers,  and  a  top-hole  supper  with  quails, 
and  Chinese  lanterns  and  fairy  lights  all  over  the  gar- 
den, and  places  to  sit  out.  It  was  a  gorgeous  night 
with  a  moon.  The  whole  thing  was  romantic,  like 
Florence,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  all  that.  Freda 
looked  lovely.  She  was  in  pink,  which  suits  her  best, 
and  her  hair  was  like  spun  gold.  But  from  the  very 
first  things  didn't  look  as  if  they  were  going  right. 
She  had  half  promised  to  let  me  take  her  in  to  sup- 
per, but  when  I  wanted  to  put  my  name  down  she 
wouldn't,  as  she  said  she  couldn't  engage  herself  in  their 
own  house  until  she  saw  how  things  would  turn  out. 

140 


LETTERS  141 

And  she  would  only  sit  out  half  of  one  dance  in  the 
garden,  and  then  in  a  place  that  was  quite  light,  so 
I  shouldn't  anyhow  have  had  a  chance  of  asking  her, 
and  it  looked  as  if  she  didn't  mean  that  I  should. 

Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  the  Lord  Mayor 
was  there,  and  his  family,  and  they  were  made  a  tre- 
mendous fuss  of.  There  was  a  son  who  paid  a  lot  of 
attention  to  Freda,  and  it  was  him  she  went  into  sup- 
per with.  I  hated  the  fellow,  he  looked  such  a  cad, 
and  I  told  Freda  so  and  she  was  annoyed  and  said  he 
didn't,  and  anyhow  she  had  to  be  civil  to  him  as  her 
mother  had  told  her  to,  so  I  suppose  the  old  girl  wants 
him  for  Freda,  but  I  really  don't  think  she  wants  him, 
and  it  was  just  a  little  better  when  they'd  gone  away, 
and  I  had  the  last  dance  with  her,  and  she  was  aw- 
fully sweet  and  like  I  hoped  she'd  have  been  all  the 
time.  I'd  have  tried  my  luck  then,  but  it  was  too  late. 

Well,  I  suppose  you'll  say  I'm  jealous,  but  I  cer- 
tainly shouldn't  stoop  to  be  jealous  of  a  bounder  like 
that,  and  if  I  thought  that  Freda  really  preferred  him 
to  me  I  should  just  clear  out,  for  she  wouldn't  be  the 
girl  I've  taken  her  for,  and  I  shouldn't  want  her  any 
more.  I  should  think  you'd  be  able  to  see  that.  At 
present  I'm  feeling  pretty  low.  I  only  slept  for  about 
half  an  hour  last  night,  and  I've  had  a  beastly  time 
with  Cousin  Henry  today.  When  I've  finished  this 
I'm  going  to  bed.  Perhaps  tomorrow  I  shall  feel  more 
like  facing  things,  but  anyhow  I'm  not  going  to  give 
up. 

As  it's  only  nine  o'clock  I  may  as  well  tell  you  about 
Cousin  Henry  before  I  dry  up.  He  and  Aunt  Kate 
ware  at  the  dance  last  night,  and  he  got  himself  in- 


142  WATERMEADS 

troduced  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  which  bucked  him  up 
considerably,  and  he  was  as  amiable  as  possible  when 
I  had  a  word  or  two  with  him.  But  he  must  have 
drunk  too  much  bubbly  wine  or  something,  for  when 
he  came  up  to  the  office  this  morning  an  hour  late  he 
was  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head.  I  could  see  he 
wanted  to  drop  on  me  if  he  could  only  find  an  excuse, 
and  I  was  pretty  careful  over  my  work,  but  at  last 
he  did  discover  something  that  had  gone  a  little  wrong. 
It  wasn't  my  fault,  but  he  let  me  have  it  all  the  same. 
He  said  I  was  an  idle  good-for-nothing  fellow,  and 
thought  of  nothing  but  amusing  myself  and  dancing 
about  all  the  night — pretty  good  when  he  had  been  at 
the  same  dance  himself,  and  had  stopped  in  bed  when  I 
hadn't !  I  wasn't  feeling  in  the  best  of  tempers  myself 
because  of  not  sleeping  and  what  had  happened,  so  I 
didn't  take  more  than  a  certain  amount,  and  we  had 
what  almost  amounted  to  a  scrap.  Anyhow,  the  end 
of  it  was  that  he  said  I  needn't  come  back  after  my 
holidays.  I  said  *  All  right,  Cousin  Henry.  I  know 
I'm  not  the  slacker  you  try  to  make  me  out,  and  I 
believe  now  I  could  get  just  as  good  a  job  somewhere 
else  as  I've  got  here.'  That's  true,  you  know,  and  it 
touched  him.  He  said  '  It  isn't  only  a  job  I've  given 
you  and  paid  you  well  for  it  when  you  weren't  worth 
it.  If  you  were  fit  to  be  anything  but  a  clerk  you 
could  have  had  a  partnership  here  in  a  few  years'  time. 
I  gave  you  your  chance  when  you  hadn't  got  it  in  you 
to  make  a  penny  for  yourself  and  that's  all  the  return 
I  get  for  it.  You've  got  no  more  gratitude  in  you  than 
this  piece  of  wood.'  *  Well,'  I  said, '  I've  told  you  lots  of 
times  that  I'm  grateful  for  what  you've  done  for  me, 


LETTERS  143 

and  I  have  been.  If  you're  going  to  sack  me  for  noth- 
ing at  all  I've  nothing  further  to  be  grateful  for,  so 
I  won't  waste  time  by  repeating  it.'  Then  I  cleared  out. 
I  think  I  was  right,  don't  you?  Mind  you  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  means  me  to  go,  but  I'm  getting  sick  of  be- 
ing treated  as  he  treats  me,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
stand  any  more  of  it.  I'm  rather  glad  now  that 
Uncle  Mark  put  me  off  dining  with  him  till  tomorrow. 
I  shall  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  if  he's  decent  I  shall 
ask  his  advice.  I  dare  say  he  could  easily  get  me  a 
job  himself,  if  he  wanted  to,  a  secretaryship  or  some- 
thing, and  if  he  did  that  it  would  be  rather  fun  to  see 
how  old  Henry  took  it.  I  haven't  told  him  yet  that 
I've  met  Uncle  Mark.  I  should  think  he's  bound  to  be 
jealous  of  him.  I  feel  rather  vindictive  to- 
wards the  old  snork,  but  I  mustn't  forget  what 
he  did  for  me.  If  he'd  only  be  as  decent  as 
he  was  at  first  I  should  have  nothing  much  to  complain 
about. 

Goodbye,  dear  old  girls,  I  really  must  go  and  lie 
down,  I'm  so  sleepy.  I'll  write  to  you  again  after  I've 
dined  with  Uncle  Mark.  But  write  to  me  first  and  tell 
me  all  you  are  doing.  How  is  Bellamy?  I  like  that 
fellow.  Has  Penelope  said  anything  awful  lately? 
Well,  I  feel  pretty  blue,  but  it  has  cheered  me  up  writ- 
ing to  you.  Give  my  love  to  Olivia.  It  will  be  jolly 
to  see  her  again. 

Much  love  from  FRED. 

DEAREST  FREDDY  (wrote  Elsie  in  reply  to  this)  : 

We  were  awfully  sorry  to  hear  of  your  disappoint- 
ment, dear.  Wasn't  it  rather  horrid  of  her  to  throw 


144  WATERMEADS 

you  over  for  the  Lord  Mayor's  son?  You  hardly 
write  a  word  of  blame  of  her,  which  is  very  sweet 
of  you,  but  Rose  and  I  have  talked  it  all  over,  and 
we  think  we  see  more  than  you  do  in  it.  Of  course, 
darling,  you  can't  be  expected  to  know  about  girls  as 
we  do,  and  in  anything  like  falling  in  love  we  can  help 
you  if  you'll  let  us,  I  mean  that  we  can  tell  you  what 
a  girl  is  like  better  than  you  can  possibly  find  out 
for  yourself.  Neither  Rose  nor  I  would  have  behaved 
as  you  say  she  did  unless  of  course  she  isn't  in  love 
with  you  at  all  and  is  inclined  to  be  in  love  with  the 
Lord  Mayor's  son,  or  if  she  wanted  to  make  you  jeal- 
ous, which  would  be  horrid  of  her.  Dearest  Freddy, 
aren't  you  really  taken  with  her  only  because  she  is 
very  pretty?  I  wish  you  would  think  it  all  over  and 
not  do  anything  more  about  it  till  you  come  down 
here  again.  It  won't  be  long  now  before  the  holidays, 
and  I  think  if  it  is  really  all  right  with  her  she  de- 
serves to  be  kept  waiting  a  little  for  the  way  she 
treated  you. 

It  is  horrid  of  Cousin  Henry  to  make  himself  so 
horrid  to  you.  But  Freddy  dear,  do  try  and  put  up 
with  him  if  you  possibly  can.  You  have  got  your  foot 
on  the  ladder  now  and  it  would  be  awfully  disappoint- 
ing if  you  had  to  begin  all  over  again.  Of  course  if 
Uncle  Mark  likes  you  and  offers  to  do  something  for 
you  it  would  be  different,  and  Cousin  Henry  has  be- 
haved so  badly  that  you  don't  really  owe  him  anything. 
But  I  won't  say  anything  more  about  all  that  till  you 
have  seen  Uncle  Mark.  We  are  so  excited  about  what 
will  happen.  Do  write  to  us  early  tomorrow  and  tell 
us  everything.  We  shall  go  and  meet  the  evening  post, 


LETTERS  145 

and  shall  be  very  disappointed  if  there  isn't  a  letter 
from  you. 

It  is  lovely  to  have  dear  Olivia  home  again.  You 
can't  think  how  beautiful  and  charming  she  has  grown, 
though  she  is  just  the  same  as  she  was  in  everything 
that  matters  and  not  spoilt  the  least  little  bit.  Dear 
old  Mr.  Bonner  seems  a  different  man  now  he  has  got 
her  home,  he  goes  about  with  a  seraphic  smile  on  his 
face  and  when  he  looks  at  her  you  want  to  hug  him, 
he  loves  her  so  much.  And  she  thinks  about  nothing 
but  to  make  him  happy  and  comfortable,  and  it  isn't 
so  very  easy  at  the  Vicarage,  as  she  has  to  do  every- 
thing on  a  little  money,  and  she  has  found  out  all 
sorts  of  things  about  the  Morrows  and  has  given  her 
notice,  and  of  course  Morrow  will  have  to  go  too, 
though  he  isn't  as  bad  as  she  is.  Mr.  Bonner  was 
worried  about  it,  and  the  Morrows  appealed  to  him 
against  her,  but  she  would  have  her  own  way,  and  is 
shielding  him  as  well  as  she  can  from  all  the  annoyance 
they  would  like  to  make  for  him.  But  I  think  really 
she  rather  enjoys  it,  if  she  can  keep  him  from  being 
bothered.  She  is  awfully  funny  about  the  Morrows 
and  what  they  say  and  do.  She  seems  much  gayer 
and  brighter  even  than  she  was  before  she  went  abroad. 
She  says  it  is  such  a  relief  to  be  herself,  and  to  have 
people  round  her  that  love  her,  and  of  course  she  did 
have  an  awful  time  with  that  horrid  aunt  of  hers, 
she  has  told  us  a  good  deal  about  it,  though  not  all, 
and  her  face  becomes  clouded  when  she  mentions  it, 
so  what  we  are  trying  to  do  is  to  help  her  to  forget 
it. 

I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  to  you  about  some- 


146  WATERMEADS 

thing  that  is  rather  exciting  us,  but  as  I'm  in  a  let- 
ter-writing mood,  and  I  hate  to  have  any  secrets  from 
you,  dear  old  Freddy,  I  think  I  will. 

Well,  you  remember  Mr.  Probert,  of  course.  He  has 
been  coming  over  here  almost  every  afternoon  to  play 
tennis  and  sometimes  cricket,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  it  is  Olivia  he  is  coming  for,  and  I  believe  that 
is  part  of  what  makes  her  so  gay  and  happy,  though 
we  haven't  dared  to  say  anything  to  her  yet,  as  it 
might  spoil  it  all,  and  he  hasn't  done  or  said  anything 
yet  really  that  would  give  us  an  excuse.  He  is  really 
awfully  nice,  Freddy,  and  we  are  all  four  the  great- 
est of  friends,  and  have  the  greatest  fun  together.  I 
only  wish  you  could  be  with  us  too,  because  we  have 
got  heaps  of  new  jokes  and  sayings,  and  I  don't  like 
you  to  be  out  of  them.  But  you  will  soon  be  home 
now,  dear  old  boy,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  like  Edward 
as  much  as  all  of  us  do.  It  will  be  lovely  if  he  does 
marry  Olivia,  for  she  will  live  quite  close  to  us,  and 
I  should  think  it  couldn't  be  often  that  one  likes  the 
husbands  of  one's  friends  as  much  as  we  should  like 
him.  Even  mother  has  taken  to  him,  and  has  told  him 
every  bit  of  the  family  history,  including  about  Uncle 
Mark,  and  Dad  likes  him  awfully  and  he  likes  Dad, 
and  says  he  has  never  known  a  man  of  his  age  it  is 
so  jolly  to  be  with.  So  you  see,  Freddy  dear,  we  are 
a  very  happy  party  at  present,  and  whatever  happens 
to  us  in  the  future,  I  shall  never  forget  this  lovely 
summer,  the  only  drawback  is  you  not  being  here,  but 
if  it  only  doesn't  begin  to  rain  just  when  your  holi- 
day begins,  it  will  be  just  perfect. 

You   ask   about   Giles   Bellamy,   we   call   him   Giles 


LETTERS  147 

now,  because  when  we  slipped  into  Christian  names 
with  Edward,  he  said  he  had  one,  and  wasn't  so  old 
after  all  that  we  couldn't  use  it.  It  seemed  a  little 
odd  at  first,  I  suppose  you  would  say  because  of  his 
beard,  but,  Freddy  dear,  he  has  shaved  it  off  since,  and 
he  looks  years  and  years  younger,  and  now  it  seems 
quite  natural  to  think  of  him  as  one  of  ourselves,  and 
he  seems  younger  too,  and  is  much  more  merry.  I 
think  it  is  because  Edward  sets  such  a  good  example 
in  that  way.  There  is  only  one  thing  about  him,  that 
he  hates  Jack  Kirby,  and  won't  come  near  us  when  he 
is  here,  and  once  or  twice  he  has  been  positively  rude 
to  him.  I  must  say  Jack  took  it  very  good-naturedly, 
and  it  didn't  seem  to  alter  his  good  opinion  of  himself 
at  all.  You  know,  Freddy  dear,  he  is  rather  pushing 
in  his  ways,  and  selfish,  too,  about  always  wanting  to 
get  Rose  to  himself,  at  least  for  a  time,  when  he  is 
here.  It  is  so  different  from  the  way  both  Edward 
and  Giles  behave.  If  we  weren't  certain  of  it  by  hun- 
dreds of  little  signs,  Rose  and  I  agree  that  you  could 
hardly  tell  that  it  was  Olivia  who  was  the  attraction  to 
Edward,  he  is  so  awfully  nice  to  all  three  of  us,  and 
Giles  is  just  the  same  to  Olivia  as  he  is  to  us,  and  she 
likes  him  immensely.  So  there  we  are  as  a  very  merry 
happy  party,  and  when  Jack  comes  it  seems  to  spoil 
it  somehow.  I  still  can't  tell  whether  Rose  really  likes 
him.  I  wish  we  had  talked  about  it  together  at  the 
very  first,  then  I  should  have  known  all  that  she  is 
thinking.  But  somehow  we  didn't,  and  now  I  feel  that 
I  can't,  unless  she  does  first.  I'm  quite  sure  she  will 
tell  me  if  anything  troubles  her,  and  that's  why  I 
don't  worry  very  much  about  it.  And  I  believe  she 


148  WATERMEADS 

would  tell  me  if  she  were  really  in  love  with  him,  and 
that's  why  I  think  she  isn't — yet.  She  likes  him  of 
course,  and  laughs  at  Giles  for  hating  him  so,  as  we 
all  do.  Could  she  laugh  at  Giles  and  stick  up  for 
Jack  if  she  was  really  in  love  with  Jack?  That's 
another  reason  why  I  think  she  isn't. 

Darling  old  Dad  seems  rather  worried,  but  he  says 
there's  nothing  the  matter.  It  can't  be  money,  be- 
cause there's  quite  a  lot  left  still  from  the  sale  of 
Grandfather  John,  and  besides,  he  always  talks  quite 
openly  about  money  matters.  I  hope  you  will  have 
some  good  news  to  send  about  Uncle  Mark.  That 
would  cheer  him  up,  and  it  may  be  what  is  on  his  mind. 
But  it  isn't  like  him  not  to  tell  us  all  about  it. 

Now  I  must  really  leave  off. 

Heaps  of  love,  dear  old  boy, 

From  your  loving  ELSIE. 

Rose  wrote  by  the  same  post. 

DARLING  FREDDY: 

Elsie  says  she  has  told  you  what  we  think  about 
Freda.  We  may  be  all  wrong,  and  I  think  she  must 
be  nice  or  you  wouldn't  have  fallen  in  love  with  her. 
Still,  if  it  doesn't  go  right,  Freddy  dear,  you  know 
how  awfully  much  we  love  you  at  home,  so  don't  be 
too  unhappy  about  it. 

Edward  Probert  is  very  nice  and  I  am  sure  you  will 
like  him.  We  think  he's  in  love  with  our  dear  Olivia, 
but  Penelope,  the  odious  little  wretch,  says  he  comes 
here  after  me!  That  is  just  to  show  you  what  she  is 
still  like,  as  you  ask  after  her.  She  doesn't  improve 
as  she  gets  older,  and  you  must  take  her  in  hand  when 


LETTERS  149 

you  come  home.  We  are  all  three  friends  with  him, 
but  it  is  not  me  he  comes  here  *  after.'  I  should  know 
well  enough  if  it  were  and  shouldn't  say  anything 
about  it. 

Giles  Bellamy  is  awfully  sweet ;  he  is  like  a  very  kind 
elder  brother.  How  I  wish  he  would  marry  darling 
Elsie  so  that  we  might  have  him  as  a  real  brother,  not 
that  we  should  ever  love  him  better  than  you,  darling 
Freddy,  at  least  I  suppose  she  would  if  she  married 
him,  and  that  seems  rather  funny  because  I  can't 
imagine  loving  any  man  better  than  one's  own  brother. 
Except  perhaps  one's  own  father.  Dad  has  been  most 
awfully  loving  and  sweet  to  me  lately,  and  I  simply 
adore  him.  He's  the  dearest  kindest  father  anybody 
ever  had,  and  I  do  feel  so  sorry  for  him  with  all  his 
bothers.  If  only  Uncle  Mark  would  do  something 
that  would  make  him  happy  and  contented  again!  I 
believe  that  all  the  anxieties  he  has  had  for  years  and 
years  are  beginning  to  tell  on  him  at  last,  he  seems  to 
be  getting  older.  He  has  stood  up  against  them  for 
so  long,  and  made  the  best  of  things  and  kept  cheer- 
ful over  it,  but  now  he  is  beginning  to  feel  the  burden. 
If  you  can  send  us  some  good  news  tomorrow  it  will 
make  us  all  awfully  happy. 

I  mustn't  write  any  longer.  Bother  Cousin  Henry! 
Your  friend  Jack  Kirby  has  been  here  sometimes  at 
week  ends.  We  are  looking  forward  awfully  to  your 
coming  home,  and  if  you  don't  go  back  again  to  Cousin 
Henry  so  much  the  better. 

Goodbye,  darling, 

Your  ever  loving 

ROSE. 


150  WATERMEADS 

Fred  wrote  on  the  following  day,  but  not  until  the 
evening. 

MY  DEAREST  E.  and  R. : 

Everything  is  all  right.  Everything.  I  hardly 
know  where  to  begin,  I'm  so  bucked,  so  I  will  begin 
at  the  beginning.  I  dined  with  Uncle  Mark  at  the 
Wanderers'.  He  gave  me  a  jolly  good  dinner  with 
some  wonderful  champagne,  and  made  me  drink  nearly 
all  of  it  as  he  said  he  couldn't  touch  more  than  one 
glass  and  he  wanted  to  enjoy  it  *  vicariously  ' — is  that 
spelt  right? — and  there  wasn't  much  of  it  left.  He 
was  extraordinarily  friendly  and  most  awfully  amusing. 
But  after  dinner  he  was  quite  ready  to  be  serious  and 
I  told  him  all  about  Cousin  Henry,  and  about  Freda, 
too.  I'd  never  thought  of  doing  that,  but  I'm  jolly 
glad  I  did.  About  Cousin  Henry  he  said  he  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing  in  that  galley — I  think  that 
comes  from  a  French  expression,  doesn't  it? — and  the 
sooner  I  got  out  of  it  the  better.  Then  what  do  you 
think  he  said,  calmly  sitting  back  in  his  chair  and 
taking  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  to  look  at  the  ash? 
He  said  *  You  had  better  come  and  be  my  secretary. 
I'll  give  you  four  hundred  a  year.  That  ought  to  be 
enough  to  get  along  on  for  the  present,  and  if  it  isn't 
you  can  tell  me  about  it ! ! ! ' 

Well,  I  was  so  knocked  over  that  I  didn't  know  what 
to  say  to  thank  him,  but  he  cut  me  short  when  I  did 
say  something  and  said  '  Oh,  that's  all  right  my  boy. 
Four  hundred  a  year  is  nothing  to  me,  and  you're  quite 
welcome  to  it.  You  won't  have  as  much  to  do  as  your 
father  did,  but  there  are  lots  of  odd  little  jobs,  and  I 


LETTERS  151 

shall  like  to  have  somebody  to  go  about  with  me  some- 
times. I  shall  be  the  gainer,  and  if  it  suits  you,  so 
much  the  better.' 

Now  wasn't  that  a  ripping  nice  way  of  putting  it? 
And  that  isn't  nearly  all.  He  is  coming  down  to 
Watermeads  to  see  us.  At  least  he  is  going  to  Prittle- 
well  in  September  to  shoot,  and  he  said  he  would  come 
over  to  Watermeads,  and  if  he  liked  us  and  we  liked 
him  he  might  stay  a  few  days.  I  said  we  should  all 
be  awfully  pleased,  and  I  thought  he  would  like  us, 
and  Dad  would  be  specially  pleased,  and  he  said  he 
would  like  to  see  Dad  again  after  all  these  years,  as 
he'd  always  been  very  fond  of  him.  He  said  this  quite 
seriously,  and  of  course  it  is  rather  comic  after  what 
has  happened,  but  we  have  to  make  some  allowances 
for  him,  he  is  pretty  old,  though  he  doesn't  look  it, 
and  he  is  certainly  going  to  do  the  right  thing  by  us 
now. 

Well,  I'll  go  on.  He  said  I  must  have  rooms  in 
London,  and  if  I  liked  to  take  them  unfurnished  he 
would  furnish  them  for  me  or  have  things  brought  up 
from  Watermeads  if  I  preferred  that,  as  there  must 
be  a  lot  of  things  there  that  can  be  spared.  He  said 
we  could  go  and  look  for  rooms  together  round  St. 
James's.  It  was  then  I  said  that  I  was  hoping  to  get 
engaged,  and  he  was  a  bit  bowled  over  at  first,  but 
when  I  had  told  him  who  it  was  he  said  that  if  the  girl 
was  all  right  it  would  do,  but  he  should  like  to  see 
her  first.  Then  I  told  him  about  the  night  before,  and 
he  laughed  and  said  I  was  to  go  to  Blumenthal  with 
his  compliments  and  tell  him  that  I  was  Mr.  Mark 
Drake's  nephew,  and  he  should  like  me  to  bring  Miss 


152  WATERMEADS 

Blumenthal  to  see  him.  He  wouldn't  say  a  word  more, 
but  talked  about  other  things,  and  made  himself  as 
pleasant  as  possible  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  I 
think  he  really  does  like  me,  and  he  has  been  so  kind 
that  I  couldn't  help  liking  him  if  I  tried.  When  I 
went  away  he  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  quite  affec- 
tionately and  said  *  Goodbye  my  boy,  get  away  from 
Mr.  Wilkins  as  soon  as  you  can  and  come  to  me.  I'll 
treat  you  better  than  he  did.'  He  is  a  nice  old  boy, 
— I  shall  do  my  best  to  please  him,  and  I  believe  we 
shall  get  on  well  together. 

Well,  now  I  come  to  dear  Cousin  Henry.  I  went 
into  his  room  this  morning  and  said  '  As  you  have 
given  me  notice  to  leave  you  do  you  mind  if  I  go  at 
once?  '  He  looked  pretty  black  I  can  tell  you,  and  said 
in  a  sour  kind  of  way  '  Why,  has  anybody  left  you 
a  fortune?'  I  said  'No,  but  I'm  going  to  be  secre- 
tary to  my  uncle,  and  he  wants  me  as  soon  as  I  can 
go.'  You  should  have  seen  his  face.  I  don't  think  I've 
ever  said  a  single  word  to  him  or  any  of  them  about 
Uncle  Mark,  but  he  knew  at  once  who  I  meant  and  he 
said  '  Oh,  so  Tie  has  taken  you  up,  has  he?  '  I  said 
'  I  dined  with  him  last  night  and  told  him  that  you  had 
given  me  the  sack,  and  he  said  he  should  like  to  have 
me  with  him  as  my  father  used  to  be,  and  the  sooner 
I  could  come  the  better.  As  you  have  always  told  me 
I  wasn't  the  slightest  use  to  you,  and  business  is  a 
bit  slack  now  you  won't  miss  me  if  I  do  go,  will 
you?  Of  course  I  shouldn't  like  to  inconvenience  you.' 
I  don't  know  whether  it  wasn't  rather  beastly  of  me  to 
put  it  like  that,  but  really,  I've  put  up  with  such  a  lot 
from  him  that  I  feel  as  if  I  must  get  a  bit  of  my  own 


LETTERS  153 

back.  Well,  he  flew  into  a  furious  temper,  called  me 
an  ungrateful  young  cub,  and  said  he  hadn't  meant  to 
get  rid  of  me  at  all  but  only  to  give  me  a  lesson  that 
would  make  me  think  more  seriously  about  my  work. 
I  let  him  talk  and  didn't  answer  him  back.  That  an- 
noyed him,  and  at  last  he  told  me  to  get  out.  I  was 
to  think  it  over  and  not  be  a  fool.  Anyhow  he 
couldn't  do  without  me  till  the  time  came  for  my  holi- 
day. I  thought  that  as  he  had  been  decent  to  me  at 
first  I'd  leave  it  at  that.  If  he  sees  I'm  bent  on  go- 
ing he  probably  won't  want  to  keep  me,  and  anyhow 
Uncle  Mark  won't  press  it.  Besides  I  don't  really 
want  to  leave  Hillstead  just  yet. 

Well,  that's  for  Cousin  Henry.  This  afternoon  I 
got  back  at  half  past  five  and  called  on  the  Blumen- 
thals.  As  luck  would  have  it  I  walked  up  from  the 
station  with  Blumenthal  himself.  He  was  rather 
grumpy,  as  it  was  hot  and  his  car  wasn't  there  and 
there  were  no  cabs,  and  he  didn't  want  to  be  bothered 
with  me.  I  tried  to  amuse  him  with  an  agreeable  flow 
of  conversation,  but  he  wasn't  taking  any.  Then  sud- 
denly an  inspiration  came  to  me.  Without  waiting 
for  second  thoughts  I  caught  my  breath  and  said 
*  Mr.  Blumenthal,  I  want  to  ask  your  permission  to  ask 
Freda  to  marry  me.' 

Well,  that  seemed  to  interest  him  some.  He  looked 
like  apoplexy  for  a  moment  and  then  he  laughed  and 
said  '  That's  pretty  good  jeek,  young  Mr.  Gonway. 
May  I  ask  what  your  brosbects  are?  '  He  talks  like 
that.  So  I  told  him,  and  you  bet  I  played  Uncle  Mark 
for  all  I  was  worth.  Watermeads,  too.  I  thought 
it  might  have  some  effect,  though  I  didn't  hide  that 


154  WATERMEADS 

there  wasn't  much  money  in  it  at  present.  But  it 
seemed  to  have  more  even  than  Uncle  Mark.  He  said 
'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  seriously  Mr.  Gonway  that 
you  belong  to  a  Gounty  Vamily?'  I'm  afraid  he's 
rather  a  snob,  but  Freda  isn't.  I  told  him  he  could 
look  us  up  in  a  book,  and  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it  is  that  he  said  I  might  ask  Freda.  But  he  shouldn't 
put  any  bressure  on  her.  Then  he  said  *  But  mind 
I'm  not  going  to  have  any  humbug,'  and  he  told  me  a 
story  that  made  me  laugh  all  over  inside,  though  I 
kept  a  grave  face.  It  seems  that  the  Lord  Mayor's 
son  was  dead  nuts  on  a  girl  that  they  had  brought 
up  to  the  dance.  I  don't  know  her  name  but  I  re- 
member her  face.  They  had  quarrelled  coming  up  and 
he  had  paid  attention  to  Freda  to  score  off  her.  I 
suppose  it  brought  her  to  book,  for  they  went  down 
together  and  got  engaged  on  the  way.  Fancy  his  tell- 
ing me  all  that!  And  where  he  got  it  from  I  don't 
know. 

Well,  dear  old  girls  I  shifted  my  clothes  and  went 
to  their  house  as  soon  as  I  could.  As  luck  would  have 
it  again  I  was  shown  into  a  room  where  Freda  was 
alone.  She  was  surprised  to  see  me,  so  her  father  can't 
have  said  anything.  In  five  minutes  I  was  a  happy 
man!  ! 

I  shan't  tell  you  any  more  now  but  shall  wait  till 
I  come  home.  And  I'm  writing  to  mother  to  ask  if 
I  can  bring  her  with  me.  She's  really  awfully  sweet. 
She  hated  the  Lord  Mayor's  son,  but  had  to  be  civil 
to  him  because  old  Blumenthal  told  her  to.  She  gen- 
erally has  her  own  way  with  him,  but  sometimes  he 
comes  down  on  her  like  a  ton  of  bricks  and  has  his. 


LETTERS  155 

Goodbye  my  old  pets.  I  know  you  will  love  her.  I 
wouldn't  change  places  now  with  Jack  Kirby  or  any- 
body. 

Your  ever  loving  brother, 

FEED. 


CHAPTER    XII 

FREDA 

ELSIE  and  Rose  threw  a  last  look  round  the  room. 
They  had  put  flowers  upon  the  dressing-table,  and  else- 
where, and  whatever  other  arrangements  could  be 
made  to  prepare  for  the  coming  of  an  honoured  guest 
they  had  made. 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  much  to  grumble  at,"  said 
Elsie.  "  You  could  hardly  find  a  nicer  room  any- 
where." 

"  It  «*  pretty,"  said  Rose,  with  a  shade  more  of 
doubt. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  room — large  and  square,  as 
nearly  all  the  rooms  at  Watermeads  were.  Windows 
in  two  of  the  walls  gave  charming  views  of  the  garden 
and  the  park.  The  evening  sun  cast  bright  parallelo- 
grams on  the  faded  carpet.  Elsie  would  have  pulled 
down  the  blinds  of  the  west  window  if  they  had  not 
been  so  dilapidated ;  it  was  a  choice  between  showing 
their  shabbiness  or  that  of  the  carpet ;  and  the  colours 
of  the  carpet  were  almost  beyond  further  reduction  by 
the  action  of  the  sun.  The  furniture  was  beautiful. 
There  was  a  great  four-post  bed  with  pillars  of  carved 
and  fluted  mahogany,  tallboy  chests  of  drawers, 
eighteenth  century  chairs  and  writing-table.  All  the 
rich  hues  of  the  wood  had  been  brought  out  by  age 
and  hard  rubbing,  and  the  brasses  polished  to  staid 

156 


FREDA  157 

brightness.  Elsie  and  Rose  had  done  a  good  deal  of 
the  rubbing  and  polishing  themselves  of  late.  There 
were  dozens  of  bedrooms  at  Watermeads  that  were 
permanently  shut  up,  with  furniture  bunched  up  to- 
gether and  covered  with  dust  sheets.  This,  and  a 
smaller  one,  were  kept  in  being  for  the  rare  visitors 
who  slept  in  the  house.  Curtains  and  bed-hangings 
and  carpet  were  changed  from  time  to  time,  when  it 
seemed  that  amongst  those  stored  away,  or  rolled  up, 
there  were  rather  fresher  ones  than  those  in  use;  and 
there  had  sometimes  been  a  rearrangement  of  pictures 
and  ornaments ;  but  of  these  there  was  no  lack  any- 
where. 

There  were  valuable  prints  on  the  walls ;  fine  china 
on  the  mantelpiece  and  in  a  Queen  Anne  glassed  cup- 
board; old  silver  on  the  writing-table.  But  the  toilet 
ware  was  made  up  of  odd  pieces,  and  the  pretty  old- 
fashioned  paper  showed  an  enormous  stain  in  a  cor- 
ner where  the  rain  had  come  through  the  damaged  roof. 
These  were  the  two  chief  blots,  but  they  were  big 
enough  to  bring  that  note  of  doubt  into  Rose's  voice, 
as  she  surveyed  the  sum  total  of  the  careful  prepara- 
tions which  she  and  Elsie  had  made. 

It  was  Freda  Blumenthal  who  was  to  occupy  the 
room.  She  was  coming  down  with  Fred,  on  the  first 
day  of  his  month's  holiday,  and  her  future  sisters-in- 
law  were  naturally  anxious  to  create  as  favourable  an 
impression  upon  her  as  was  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

"  Naurally,"  said  Elsie,  as  they  still  lingered 
by  the  sunny  west  window,  "  if  she  loves  Fred  she 
will  make  the  best  of  things.  Olivia  says  it  ought 


158  WATERMEADS 

to  make  her  love  him  all  the  more,  to  find  us  as  we 
are." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose  contemplatively.  "  If  I  loved  any- 
body I  should  be  sorry  for  them  because  they  had  come 
down  in  the  world,  as  I  suppose  we  have;  especially  if 
I  could  do  something  to  raise  them  up  again." 

This  was  oft-covered  ground,  but  the  girls  were 
never  tired  of  discussing  Freda,  both  in  her  personal 
and  accidental  qualities. 

"  If  her  father  left  her  a  lot  of  money,"  said  Elsie, 
"  and  she  had  the  taste  for  it,  she  could  have  the  great- 
est fun  in  the  world  restoring  Watermeads  to  what  it 
used  to  be.  There's  plenty  to  work  on,  and  I  don't 
believe  it  would  cost  so  very  much  after  all.  It  isn't 
like  a  great  house  with  nothing  in  it." 

It  was  understood  between  them  that  these  exercises 
of  imagination  referred  to  a  future  time,  when  Fred 
should  be  master  of  Watermeads.  Fred  would  then  be 
rich  too,  either  as  beneficiary  of  Uncle  Mark  or 
through  his  own  exertions;  but  it  was  his  wife  who 
would  naturally  get  most  fun  out  of  the  rehabilitation 
of  the  house. 

"  I  do  hope  we  shall  like  her,"  said  Rose,  for  the 
hundredth  time. 

"  I'm  going  to,"  said  Elsie  resolutely.  "  Fred 
wouldn't  have  chosen  her  if  she  hadn't  been  all  right." 

"  He  might  have  been  deceived  in  her,"  said  Rose. 
"  But  we'll  hope  he  wasn't.  Nothing  could  be  sweeter 
than  the  letter  she  wrote  to  us." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  station  fly  drew  up  before 
the  great  entrance  of  Watermeads.  The  whole  family 
had  gathered  at  the  top  of  the  steps  when  it  had  first 


FREDA  159 

been  descried  in  the  distance,  crawling  over  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  the  park,  like  a  black  fly.  The  top  had  been 
seen  to  be  encumbered  with  luggage,  and  on  the  box 
had  been  an  unexpected  figure,  which  after  considera- 
ble discussion  had  been  recognised  as  a  maid.  Fortu- 
nately the  dressing-room  next  to  Freda's  bedroom  only 
wanted  a  trifle  of  attention  to  make  it  habitable,  and 
orders  had  been  given  that  this  should  be  done,  di- 
rectly it  had  been  agreed  that  the  black-bonneted  fig- 
ure on  the  box  could  only  be  that  of  a  maid. 

Fred  put  a  happy  grinning  face  out  of  the  window 
of  the  fly  as  it  debouched  upon  the  space  in  front  of 
the  house.  By  that  time  the  Conway  family  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps,  except  Mrs.  Conway,  who 
stood,  a  massive  stately  figure,  in  the  doorway,  and 
Penelope,  to  whom  it  seemed  good  for  the  moment  to 
create  the  effect  of  clinging  to  her  mother's  skirts. 

Fred  alighted  and  helped  Freda  out  of  the  fly.  She 
made  a  charming  figure  in  her  pretty  summer  travel- 
ling costume.  It  had  needed  no  violent  exercise  of 
imagination  on  Fred's  part  to  liken  her  hair  to  spun 
gold.  Her  eyes  were  of  pervenche  blue;  she  had  the 
creamiest  of  skins  delicately  tinged  with  rose;  all  the 
soft  delicious  curves  of  youth  were  in  her  slim  form. 
She  was  too  tall  to  be  likened  to  a  figure  of  Dresden 
china,  but  that  was  the  effect  created  by  the  delicacy 
of  her  colouring.  She  was,  in  sum,  an  extraordinarily 
pretty  girl.  Hypercriticism  might  have  found  fault 
with  the  set  of  her  mouth,  which  looked  as  if  it  were 
meant  to  express  discontent  amongst  other  things,  but 
she  was  smiling  radiantly  as  she  stepped  out  of  the 
fly.  Any  inclination  towards  discontent  that  she 


160  WATERMEADS 

might  have  felt  at  any  time  should  have  been  removed, 
or  at  least  lessened,  by  the  obvious  effect  her  arrival 
made  upon  the  whole  Conway  family. 

Sydney  received  her  from  his  son,  and  kissed  her 
hand.  "  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  have  made  us  all 
very  happy,  and  we  are  going  to  make  you  very 
happy." 

She  blushed  and  looked  pleased;  and  indeed  it  had 
been  beautifully  done.  In  his  old  grey  flannel  suit, 
which  he  had  refused  to  change  for  a  newer  one,  the 
Squire  of  Watermeads  looked  and  behaved  like  a 
prince,  and  had  treated  her  like  a  princess.  Any  girl 
must  have  been  pleased  with  such  a  reception. 

Freda  gave  a  quick  smiling  side  glance  at  Elsie  and 
Rose  and  Bobby  and  Billy,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps,  and  ran  up  them  lightly  to  greet  Mrs.  Conway. 

That  lady  had  already  decided  upon  her  own  method 
of  reception.  She  was  to  be  the  stately  mother,  who 
must  be  paid  court  to.  Her  attitude  was  to  indicate 
judgment  held  in  suspense,  but  ready  to  incline  to- 
wards leniency.  But  that  beautiful  blushing  face  ad- 
vanced towards  her  to  be  kissed  blew  the  crotchets  out 
of  her  brain.  She  kissed  the  girl  warmly,  but  said 
nothing.  She  always  found  it  difficult  to  say  things  in 
an  emergency  unless  she  had  thought  of  them  before- 
hand, but  she  was  conscious  of  high  approval  of  Fred's 
choice,  and  relief  at  finding  it  unnecessary  to  insist 
upon  her  position,  since  from  the  girl's  manner  every- 
thing she  could  desire  in  that  way  was  already  ac- 
corded to  her.  This  feeling  was  heightened  by  Freda's 
little  speech  to  her,  possibly  prepared  beforehand.  It 
was  delivered  with  an  engaging  smile,  and  ran :  "  I 


FREDA  161 

must  apologise  for  taking  Fred  away  from  you,  Mrs. 
Conway;  but  you  know  I'm  not  really  going  to  take 
him  away  from  you." 

"  Charming !  "  thought  Mrs.  Conway ;  "  and  there 
is  no  trace  of  the  German  about  her  whatever."  She 
gathered  herself  together  to  say  something  nice,  some- 
thing that  would  set  the  girl  at  her  ease  and  make  her 
feel  that  she  was  accepted  into  the  bosom  of  the  fam- 
ily. "  You  have  brought  lovely  weather  with  you,"  she 
said  graciously.  "  I  hope  that  it  will  be  fine  as  long 
as  you  stay  here." 

Penelope  was  next  warmly  embraced,  and  submitted 
to  the  operation  with  surprising  equanimity ;  for  she 
was  as  a  general  rule  averse  from  being  kissed,  and  had 
announced  to  her  sisters  that  she  would  treat  Freda 
properly  if  she  treated  her  properly,  but  should  re- 
fuse to  be  slopped  over,  and  should  reserve  her  judg- 
ment as  to  whether  Freda  was  really  nice  until  she 
saw  whether  she  had  brought  her  something. 

"  I've  found  out  what  you  like,"  said  Freda  in  her 
ear,  "  and  if  you  come  up  to  my  room  after  I've  un- 
packed I'll  give  it  to  you." 

But  Penelope  had  submitted  to  her  embrace  before 
this  happy  promise  had  been  held  out  to  her;  and  had 
even  returned  it. 

Freda  had  a  little  speech  both  for  Elsie  and  Rose, 
which  she  delivered  with  her  eyes  fixed  sweetly  upon 
them,  and  a  smiling  mouth.  Elsie  and  Rose  were  not 
ready  with  little  speeches  in  return,  and  felt  rather 
awkward  in  face  of  her  self-possessed  amiability.  But 
they  were  not  inclined  to  blame  her  for  making  them 
feel  so;  her  offering  of  sisterly  affection  put  every- 


162  WATERMEADS 

thing  on  the  right  footing.  If  she  meant  to  be  like 
that  towards  them,  then  any  doubts  that  they  might 
have  harboured  as  to  her  essential  *  niceness '  were 
swept  away. 

She  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  kissing  Bobby  and 
Billy,  washed  and  brushed  though  they  were.  It  was 
enough  for  them  that  their  fears  in  this  respect  were 
proved  baseless,  but  she  added  to  the  good  impression 
she  had  made  on  them  by  saying :  "  Fred  has  told  me 
all  about  your  cricket.  I  used  to  play  at  school,  and 
I  loved  it.  I  don't  play  now,  but  I  shall  recognise  a 
good  stroke  when  I  see  you  make  one." 

Truly,  this  was  an  admirable  specimen  of  girlhood ! 
Bobby  and  Billy  had  a  concomitant  wild  desire  to  go 
off  and  practise  strokes  forthwith,  but  restrained 
themselves  in  view  of  the  immediate  imminence  of  tea. 
They  had  been  very  doubtful  about  Fred's  wisdom  in 
becoming  enmeshed  with  a  girl,  just  as  life  was  open- 
ing delightfully  before  him,  and  he  would  probably 
have  more  time  for  cricket  than  ever  before.  But  now 
he  was  triumphantly  vindicated.  A  girl  who  could 
recognise  strokes!  Even  Elsie  and  Rose  had  never 
really  been  able  to  do  that. 

They  went  into  the  great  hall,  where  the  table  was 
set  for  tea  as  usual.  It  had  been  swept  and  garnished, 
and  all  the  litter  removed.  The  tea-table,  set  with 
the  best  silver  and  china,  displayed  a  greater  variety 
of  delicacies  than  usual.  The  shabbiness  of  things 
whose  shabbiness  could  not  be  disguised  detracted  lit- 
tle from  the  general  effect,  which  was  that  of  old 
established  dignity  and  homeliness  combined.  There 
was  nothing  here  to  show  that  the  Conways  were  very 


FREDA  163 

poor  for  people  in  their  position,  nothing  even  to  show 
that  they  had  not  as  much  money  at  their  command 
as  they  could  have  wished  for,  since  there  are  many 
people  living  in  fine  houses  that  have  come  down  to 
them  who  do  not  spend  money  on  keeping  them  up  to 
the  pitch  of  perfection  in  the  matter  of  furnishing  and 
decoration. 

Mrs.  Conway  had  found  her  tongue.  "  Would  you 
like  to  go  up  to  your  room  now,  Freda?  "  she  asked, 
"  or  will  you  have  tea  at  once  ?  A  cup  will  refresh  you 
after  your  journey,  and  it  is  quite  ready," 

Freda  said  she  would  have  tea  at  once.  "  Parker 
can  unpack  for  me,"  she  said,  "  and  I  can  go  up  after- 
wards. I  hope  you  didn't  mind  my  bringing  a  maid, 
Mrs.  Conway.  Fred  said  you  might  not  be  prepared 
for  her.  If  I  had  thought  of  it  I  would  have  asked 
you." 

"  We  are  quite  accustomed  to  visitors  bringing 
maids,"  replied  Mrs.  Conway.  "  Indeed,  I  should  have 
been  surprised  if  you  had  not  brought  one." 

This  was  a  '  smasher.'  Mrs.  Conway  was  addicted 
to  them,  but  they  created  no  particularly  harmful  ef- 
fect upon  those  who  knew  her.  She  carried  her  own 
full  share  of  the  credulity  she  imposed  upon  them,  for 
she  believed  every  word  of  what  she  said. 

"  Your  Parker  will  create  a  pleasing  impression  in 
the  servants'  quarters,  my  dear,"  said  Sydney,  "  and 
she  will  get  more  attention  than  she  would  if  they  were 
of  her  own  sort." 

It  was  the  incurable  Conway  inclination  to  put  all 
the  facts  relative  to  their  poverty  upon  the  table,  al- 
ready showing  itself.  Mrs.  Conway  did  not  share  it, 


164  WATERMEADS 

but  the  tide  was  against  her.  She  could  not  keep  up 
any  attempt  at  making  the  best  of  things  for  long. 
She  now  breathed  heavily  and  looked  aside,  but  Freda 
began  to  exclaim  ecstatically  about  the  great  hall  and 
everything  around  her.  "  You  didn't  tell  me  half  how 
lovely  it  all  is,"  she  said  to  Fred. 

"  We'll  all  go  round  in  a  party  after  tea  and  show 
you  everything,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  dare  say  you'd 
rather  go  round  with  Fred  alone,  but  he  isn't  going 
to  be  allowed  to  monopolise  you,  you  know.  You're 
going  to  be  one  of  us,  and  we  like  to  hunt  in  a  pack." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  lovely,"  said  Freda  happily. 
"  I'm  simply  longing  to  see  everything." 

"  Well,  there's  plenty  to  see,"  said  Sydney  modestly. 
"  We're  all  very  fond  of  Watermeads,  and  very  proud 
of  it  too.  The  paint  has  been  rubbed  off  here  and 
there,  but  a  fresh  bit  of  it  at  any  time  would  put 
everything  right." 

"  I  know  paint  is  awfully  expensive,"  said  Freda. 
"  It  cost  father  I  don't  know  what  the  last  time  the 
Manor  was  done." 

Sharp  eyes  watched  Fred  and  Freda  during  the 
progress  of  the  meal.  He  was  evidently  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  delight  with  her,  and  with  the  impression  she 
had  made  and  was  improving  every  minute.  His 
ecstatic  state  might  be  taken  for  granted,  but  it  was 
gratifying  to  realise  what  extra  pleasure  it  was  giv- 
ing him  that  she  pleased  the  rest  of  them,  and  that  they 
pleased  her.  He  did  not  want  to  keep  it  all  for  him- 
self, nor  did  she  so  fill  his  mind  as  to  drive  out  his 
affection  for  them.  But  Fred's  attitude  was  always 
right  in  everything,  in  the  opinion  of  Elsie  and  Rose; 


FREDA  165 

and  as  for  Bobby  and  Billy,  they  accepted  everything 
he  did  without  question. 

As  for  Freda,  it  was  natural  that  on  her  first  in- 
troduction to  Watermeads,  anxious  to  acquit  herself 
well,  she  should  pay  less  attention  to  Fred  than  was 
probably  usual  with  her.  But  she  did  not  stint  him  of 
looks  and  smiles,  and  whenever  she  did  speak  to  him 
there  was  a  *  something.'  Yes,  she  did  love  him,  as 
the  dear  boy  deserved  to  be  loved.  It  would  have  made 
up  for  a  great  deal,  even  if  she  had  not  been  quite 
so  '  nice  '  as  was  to  be  hoped  for.  But  she  was  nice, 
though  possibly  a  trifle  over  eager  to  please;  and  that 
slight  fault  could  easily  be  forgiven  her  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

This  was  Elsie's  and  Rose's  verdict  when  they  were 
first  alone  together.  The  rest  of  the  family,  includ- 
ing even  Mrs.  Conway  for  once,  was  '  going  round ' ; 
but,  in  the  temporary  adjustment  of  the  household  to 
a  higher  pitch  of  living  than  was  customary,  the  two 
girls  had  a  good  deal  to  do  in  the  way  of  preparation. 
Their  work  now  was  to  set  the  table  for  dinner.  In  the 
meantime  Freda  was  being  shown  the  gardens.  If  they 
hurried,  they  could  get  their  work  done  in  time  to  join 
the  party  before  they  had  finished  their  tour  of  ex- 
ploration. 

They  had  taken  Freda  up  to  her  room,  and  she  had 
expressed  herself  enchanted  with  it.  She  had  never 
slept  in  such  a  room  before,  she  said.  Her  own  was 
perhaps  bigger,  and  it  had  a  charming  view  over  gar- 
den and  woods.  Nobody  would  believe,  she  told  them, 
that  it  was  only  five  miles  from  St.  Paul's,  for  not  a 
roof  or  chimney  could  be  seen  from  it.  But  this  was 


166  WATERMEADS 

far  better.  Somehow  you  felt  that  you  were  in  the 
country.  She  made  light  of  the  great  stain  on  the 
wall,  which  was  so  much  in  evidence  that  attention  had 
to  be  called  to  it.  It  was  the  maid  who,  still  very 
much  in  evidence,  hoped  that  it  did  not  mean  that  the 
room  was  damp.  The  maid  looked  superior,  and  what 
Rose  afterwards  called  sniffy,  and  she  did  not  leave 
the  room,  although  she  seemed  to  have  nothing  left  to 
do  there,  but  regarded  the  two  girls  with  critical  eyes, 
so  that  they  wished  Freda  would  send  her  away.  But 
Freda  seemed  anxious  to  propitiate  her,  and  it  was 
Elsie  and  Rose  who  went  away,  when  they  had  wanted 
to  have  a  little  private  talk,  and  the  maid  who  stayed. 
Perhaps  she  too  wanted  to  have  a  little  private  talk. 

Cooky,  downstairs,  professed  herself  hostile  towards 
the  maid.  "  The  airs  she  gives  herself,  my  dears ! 
She's  never  been  in  a  house  like  this  before,  and  I  for 
one  shouldn't  care  if  she  walked  out  of  it  bag  and  bag- 
gage, and  never  showed  herself  in  my  kitchen  again. 
Seems  she's  'ad  twelve  years  service  with  a  ladyship, 
and  it's  turned  'er  'ead  like.  Only  been  with  Miss 
Freda  a  week  and  don't  think  much  of  the  place 
neither.  Miss  Freda's  never  'ad  a  maid  before,  not  all 
of  'er  own,  so  she's  got  to  put  'er  up  to  things.  That's 
what  she  says.  Quite  polite,  you  know.  Thinks  she's 
doing  us  a  good  turn  by  letting  us  into  secrets.  I  say, 
dearies,  what  is  she  like — Miss  Freda?  I  do  'ope 
Master  Fred  'asn't  made  a  mistake.  I  should  like  to 
see  her,  and  judge  for  myself." 

"  We'll  bring  her  to  see  you,  Cooky,"  said  Elsie. 
"  She's  sweetly  pretty,  and  very  nice.  Don't  listen  to 
what  Parker  says." 


FREDA  167 

"  Not  me ! "  said  Cooky,  with  a  snort.  "  I'll  take 
down  her  proud  sperrit  too,  if  she  gives  us  any  more 
patronising.  I  was  with  a  ladyship  myself,  before  I 
came  to  Watermeads — kitchen-maid,  as  I've  told  you, 
dearies — and  I  know  all  about  it." 

It  was  Mrs.  Conway  who  had  decided  that  they  were 
to  *  live  more  like  other  people  '  for  the  week  of  Freda's 
visit.  "  I  may  be  accused  of  inconsistency,"  she  had 
said.  "  No  doubt  I  shall  be.  But  I  do  not  wish  com- 
parisons to  be  made  between  ourselves  and  people  of 
German  extraction  who  have  made  money  in  business. 
Miss  Blumenthal,  no  doubt,  is  used  to  a  high  state  of 
luxury.  Luxury  she  will  not  get  here;  a  suitable  way 
of  living  she  shall.  I  do  not  choose  it  to  be  said  that 
the  advantages  of  this  marriage,  if  it  takes  place,  are 
on  our  side." 

"  No  good  trying  to  cut  a  dash  before  the  girl  Fred 
is  going  to  marry,  mother,"  her  husband  had  replied. 
"  She'd  better  know  us  as  we  are.  Nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  our  poverty,  you  know.  If  she  rep- 
resents the  money,  we  represent  something  else  that 
you  can't  buy  for  money.  I  should  leave  it  alone  if  I 
were  you." 

But  Mrs.  Conway  had  refused  to  let  it  alone.  The 
view  that  she  took  of  the  whole  affair — a  view,  how- 
ever, which  she  imparted  to  nobody — was  that  the 
*  something  else,'  represented  by  Watermeads,  and  the 
respectable  standing  of  the  Conway  family,  could  be 
bought  for  money ;  and  she  looked  upon  this  only  child 
of  a  rich  man  as  a  bidder.  If  she  was  in  love  with  Fred, 
and  was  herself  presentable,  so  much  the  better.  But 
that  Watermeads  had  not  counted  in  her  acceptance 


168  WATERMEADS 

of  his  suit  she  had  never  believed.  She  did  not  believe 
it  now,  though  Freda  was  as  pleasing  to  her  as  any 
girl  that  Fred  might  have  presented  as  his  affianced 
bride.  The  outward  expression  of  her  views  simply 
lay  in  presenting  Watermeads  with  as  much  dignity  as 
could  be  managed  without  going  quite  away  from  the 
established  state  of  things,  but  behind  it  was  the  idea 
of  a  bargain  to  be  struck.  The  advantages  of  the 
other  side  must  not  be  allowed  an  undue  prominence. 

Anything  like  a  formal  dinner-party  as  a  recogni- 
tion of  Freda  was  out  of  the  question.  But  supper  at 
nine  was  to  give  place  to  dinner  at  eight,  and  one  or 
two  particular  friends  were  to  be  asked  to  dine.  For 
the  rest  there  was  to  be  a  succession  of  tennis  parties, 
which  would  provide  more  amusement,  lasting  over  a 
longer  period,  than  a  formal  garden-party. 

The  guests  on  the  first  evening  were  the  Vicar,  Olivia, 
Bellamy  and  Edward  Probert.  The  last  named  had 
established  his  position  as  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
house,  and  Bellamy  had  enjoyed  those  privileges  almost 
ever  since  he  had  known  them.  Nothing  was  hidden  from 
those  two  of  the  poverty  of  the  land.  None  of  the 
four  guests  would  come  expecting  anything  but  a  sim- 
ple family  meal  not  at  all  elaborately  served. 

They  assembled  in  the  hall,  and  waited  till  ten  min- 
utes past  the  hour  before  Freda  put  in  her  appearance. 
But  the  time  did  not  lag.  They  were  all  friends  to- 
gether, with  plenty  to  say  to  one  another. 

Fred  had  not  seen  Olivia  since  her  return,  and  the 
greeting  between  them  was  of  the  most  cordial.  They 
had  known  each  other  throughout  the  whole  of  their 
childhood  and  early  youth,  and  their  joint  memories 


FREDA  169 

were  legion.  Olivia  looked  lovely,  in  one  of  her  smart- 
est gowns,  of  which  she  still  had  ample  store.  "  I 
should  never  have  recognised  you,"  was  Fred's  first 
speech,  and  she  blushed  a  little,  but  was  soon  talking 
to  him  just  as  she  had  used  to  talk,  with  the  frankness 
and  affection  that  had  made  her  like  another  sister  to 
him. 

They  were  standing  together  by  the  door  which  led 
into  the  inner  hall.  The  door  was  open,  and  Elsie, 
who  was  also  standing  near  it,  looked  up  and  saw 
Freda  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  She  was  dressed  in 
diaphanous  pink,  a  radiant  fairy  figure,  and  Elsie 
gazed  at  her  entranced  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  be- 
fore descending,  a  sweet  smile  on  her  face. 

Then  her  eye  went  back  instinctively  to  Olivia,  whose 
dark  beauty  shone  like  a  star.  The  glance  at  Olivia 
was  only  momentary,  and  she  looked  back  at  Freda, 
now  descending  the  stairs.  Freda's  eyes  were  on  Fred 
and  Olivia,  and  her  mouth,  drawn  down  at  the  cor- 
ners, was  positively  ugly.  The  next  moment  she  had 
made  her  entry,  and  was  smiling  again,  sweetly  and 
rather  shyly. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IN  THE  GARDEN 

"  OH,  it's  all  lovely,  Freddy — ever  so  much  nicer  than 
I  thought  it  would  be  from  what  you  told  me." 

They  were  in  the  garden.  There  was  no  moon,  but 
the  velvet  sky  was  dusted  over  with  stars.  There  was 
enough  light  for  any  purposes  that  the  Conways  and 
their  guests  might  have  in  mind. 

Mrs.  Conway,  in  a  state  of  complete  and  somewhat 
unusual  amiability,  consented  to  brave  the  night  air, 
and,  fortified  with  a  wrap  round  her  head,  slowly 
paced  the  terrace  behind  the  house  with  the  Vicar. 
Her  husband,  smoking  his  pipe,  walked  with  them  for 
a  time.  The  young  people  had  disappeared  into  the 
shadows  of  the  garden,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  be 
with  them;  but  with  the  coalescing  of  particles  that 
was  going  on  in  the  group  of  them  he  had  become 
chary  of  intruding  himself.  It  was  their  time ;  his  was 
over.  It  was  only  by  the  accident  of  his  having  been 
cut  off  from  so  many  of  the  pursuits  that  satisfy  men 
of  middle-age,  and  having  found  his  happiness  and  con- 
tentment in  the  society  of  his  children,  that  he  had 
kept  that  illusion  of  being  young  himself.  But  with 
the  real  business  of  youth  he  had  nothing  to  do;  the 
young  men  who  wanted  the  society  of  his  daughters 
certainly  wouldn't  want  his,  though  they  would  be  per- 
fectly polite  to  him  if  he  joined  them.  What  he  was 

170 


IN    THE   GARDEN  171 

determined  to  spare  himself  was  the  pang  of  being 
shown  by  his  own  dear  girls  that  they  didn't  want  him. 
They  were  so  sweet  to  him,  still,  although  both  of 
them,  apparently,  had  their  feet  already  on  the  path 
that  would  lead  them  away  from  him.  They  never 
wanted  him  to  feel  out  of  it.  They  would  often  come 
up  to  him  and  slip  their  arms  affectionately  into  his, 
and  bring  him  into  their  circle.  They  still  wanted  him 
to  share  their  pleasures ;  the  time  had  not  yet  come 
when  they  would  show  as  much  affection  as  ever,  but 
would  make  transparent  little  excuses  for  getting  away 
from  him.  He  wanted  to  discount  that  time  by  get- 
ting used  to  doing  without  their  constant  society,  and 
making  no  claims  upon  them  which  might  one  day  come 
to  be  rejected,  however  tenderly.  But  it  was  a  hard 
and  difficult  task,  and  his  heart  was  very  often  sore 
within  him. 

He  watched  the  seven  young  people  drifting  into  the 
deeper  shadows  of  the  garden,  and  saw  Fred  and  Freda 
detach  themselves,  while  the  others  still  kept  together 
as  long  as  they  were  in  sight.  But  apparently  the  odd 
number  of  them  prevented  a  satisfactory  breaking  up, 
for  presently  Rose  and  Olivia  and  Bellamy  found  their 
way  back  to  the  terrace  again.  And  then  his  little 
Rose  poured  balm  on  him  by  saying :  "  We've  come  to 
fetch  you,  Daddy."  She  took  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his 
coat  and  lifted  her  face  for  a  kiss.  Well,  if  he  was 
wanted  he  would  go  happily  enough.  His  wife  had  her 
audience  and  would  prefer  that  he  should  be  out  of  the 
way.  She  never  wanted  him,  if  she  could  get  anybody 
else  to  talk  to. 

Rose  put  her  arm  into  his,  and  all  four  of  them 


172  WATERMEADS 

strolled  off  together.  But  presently  she  stooped  down 
to  take  a  stone  out  of  her  slipper,  while  the  others 
waited  for  her;  and  when  she  had  done  it  she  walked 
by  Olivia's  side  for  a  time.  By  and  by  Olivia  was  walk- 
ing with  him,  and  Rose  with  Bellamy,  and  finally  it  was 
Olivia  and  he,  talking  together,  who  had  moved  apart 
from  the  other  two,  and  the  coupling  was  complete. 

He  was  rather  amused  by  it,  for  it  seemed  all  wrong, 
except  for  Fred  and  Freda.  He  liked  talking  to 
Olivia,  who  was  almost  as  much  at  home  with  him  as 
his  own  daughters,  and  had  a  fuller  mind,  and  more 
experience,  than  either  of  them.  But  why  wasn't 
Probert  with  her?  And  why  wasn't  Bellamy  with 
Elsie?  Perhaps  there  had  been  one  of  those  very  slight 
misunderstandings  that  vary  the  monotony  of  incipi- 
ent attraction.  There  was  a  sense  of  relief  in  it  to  him, 
too.  He  liked  and  respected  Bellamy,  and  the  feeling 
with  which  he  regarded  him  in  conjunction  with  Elsie 
was  very  different  from  that  which  he  had  towards 
Jack  Kirby  and  Rose.  If  those  two  should  come  to  an 
agreement  it  would  give  him  pleasure,  for  by  that  time 
he  would  have  taken  the  fence,  which  would  be  the  first 
conviction  of  Elsie's  heart  having  been  given  away,  and 
her  mind  filled  with  the  figure  of  another  man.  It  was 
because  he  dreaded  taking  the  fence  that  he  welcomed 
however  short  a  respite.  He  liked  Bellamy,  but  felt 
happier  that  he  should  be  walking  in  the  shadows  with 
Rose  rather  than  with  Elsie — just  for  this  one  evening. 

As  for  Rose,  he  felt  happy  about  her  too,  since  she 
was  not  walking  in  the  shadows  with  Jack  Kirby. 

Olivia  puzzled  him  a  little.  He  could  regard  her 
with  clearer  eyes  than  was  possible  in  the  case  of  his 


IN   THE   GARDEN  173 

own  daughters,  for  the  jealousy  of  a  father  did  not 
throw  them  out  of  focus.  He  knew  how  tender  and 
responsive  she  was  beneath  her  self-possessed  manner, 
and  would  have  expected  her  to  show  some  trace  of  be- 
ing touched  by  that  imagined  misunderstanding  which 
had  parted  her  from  Probert,  who  so  obviously  ad- 
mired her.  Perhaps  he  had  not  found  his  way  into  her 
heart  yet;  perhaps  it  was  she  who  had  not  wished  to 
make  a  pair  with  him,  and  he  was  now  solacing  him- 
self with  Elsie's  sympathy  in  his  temporary  bereave- 
ment. He  felt  sorry  for  young  Edward  Probert,  and 
had  half  an  idea  of  talking  to  her  about  him  in  a 
fatherly  manner,  and  doing  him  a  good  turn  with  her. 
But  she  was  talking  about  Freda,  in  the  kindest  pos- 
sible way,  and  about  what  might  be  expected  to  come 
of  her  marriage  with  Fred.  This  was,  after  all,  the 
chief  thing  in  his  mind  at  the  moment,  and  his  heart 
being  in  a  state  of  quiescence  about  Elsie  and  Rose,  it 
interested  him  more  than  Olivia's  love  affair.  He 
might  do  something  to  help  that  on  by  and  by,  if  oc- 
casion should  offer. 

Fred  had  quickly  found  a  corner  for  himself  and 
Freda  where  they  would  be  free  from  interruption  from 
the  other  ambulatory  couples.  It  was  the  first  time 
they  had  been  alone  together  since  Freda's  introduc- 
tion to  Watermeads,  and  though  Fred's  enforced  ab- 
stinence from  love-making  during  a  period  of  four 
hours  or  so  was  weighing  heavily  upon  him,  he  was 
content  to  vary  his  protestations  by  talk  of  a  less  ec- 
static nature.  Freda,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  rather  *  off ' 
love-making  for  the  time.  She  returned  his  kisses — 
some  of  them — and  said  *  of  course,'  when  he  asked  her 


174  WATERMEADS 

if  she  loved  him;  but  she  wanted  to  talk,  and  presently 
he  fell  into  her  mood,  as  he  had  already  learnt  to  do, 
and  they  sat  together  as  staidly  as  if  they  were  al- 
ready married,  and  love-making  had  ceased  to  be  the 
hourly  food  of  their  lives.  This  was  rather  jolly  too, 
in  a  way.  Fred  felt  his  love  for  her  boiling  up  in  him 
all  the  time,  but  also  felt  that  it  was  worth  while  to 
keep  its  outward  expression  in  abeyance  now  and  then 
for  the  sake  of  the  intimate  talk  which  knitted  another 
side  of  their  natures.  Before  he  had  reached  the  stage 
at  which  he  had  been  allowed  to  make  love  to  Freda 
it  was  this  that  had  attracted  him  to  her.  He  could 
talk  to  her  more  easily  than  to  other  girls ;  they  had 
so  much  more  in  common.  And  he  had  even  gone  to 
the  length  of  supposing  within  himself  that  their 
whole  lives  could  not  be  made  up  of  love-making,  and 
falling  back  upon  a  happy  affectionate  intercourse  of 
mind,  as  upon  something  that  would  last  for  ever,  and 
even  become  a  still  greater  pleasure  as  the  years  went 
by. 

He  was  delighted  with  Freda's  warm  appreciation 
of  the  home  into  which  he  had  introduced  her.  "  Of 
course  I  think  it's  the  nicest  place  in  the  world,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  didn't  like  to  say  too  much  about  it,  for 
fear  you'd  be  disappointed.  If  we  had  had  the  money 
to  keep  it  up  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  doubt ;  but 
of  course  we  can't  live  like  other  people  do  who  have 
big  country  houses ;  we  can't  live  like  you  do  yourself 
at  Hillstead.  I  was  afraid  the  difference  might  come 
home  to  you  too  much.  You  make  me  awfully  happy, 
darling,  in  not  thinking  too  much  about  it.  You're 
just  perfect  in  the  way  you  look  at  things." 


IN   THE   GARDEN  175 

It  did  indeed  give  him  much  pleasure  that  Freda  was 
not  affected  by  the  poverty  that  did  so  much  to  con- 
tract the  amenities  of  Watermeads.  The  idea  had 
once  or  twice  crossed  his  mind  that  she  was  inclined 
to  rate  too  highly  the  state  of  wealth  in  which  she 
lived  at  home,  and  it  was  gratifying  to  have  this  sure 
proof  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  He  thought  she  de- 
served a  kiss  for  the  fresh  proof  of  her  perfection  of 
character,  and  gave  her  one,  which  she  returned  rather 
absent-mindedly. 

"  Freddy  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
something.  You  know  quite  well  that  /  don't  think 
anything  of  people  being  poor.  I'm  not  like  that.  But 
do  other  people — I  mean  the  County  people  you  call 
them,  don't  you? — who  live  about  here?  You  see  I've 
never  really  visited  at  a  country  house  before — I  mean 
a  real  country  house,  where  the  people  have  nothing 
to  do  with  business.  And  I  do  like  to  know  about 
things." 

"  What  do  you  mean  exactly,  darling?  "  asked  Fred 
tenderly,  enchanted  by  this  new  indication  of  her  ad- 
mirable character.  "  Of  course  we  can't  keep  up  with 
the  other  houses  round — in  the  way  of  doing  things  as 
they  do,  I  mean.  But  it  doesn't  make  us  any  less 
friendly  with  our  neighbours.  Most  of  them  have  been 
here  as  long  as  we  have,  or  at  any  rate  long  enough 
to  know  all  about  us;  and  the  new  ones  seem  just  as 
pleased  to  see  us  as  anybody.  Of  course  we  are  the 
Con  ways  of  Watermeads  still,  though  we  haven't  got 
much  money.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  Freddy  dear.  You  see  I  know  that 
although  father  is  very  rich — at  least  I  suppose  he  is ; 


176  WATERMEADS 

I'm  always  being  told  so — we  are  not  quite  the  same  as 
a  County  family." 

She  paused  for  a  moment.  The  expression  jarred 
ever  so  little  upon  Fred,  but  he  forgave  her  instantly, 
on  the  reflection  that  she  must  have  learnt  it  from  her 
father,  whose  snobbishness  had  been  made  patent 
since  his  enagament.  "  Oh,  don't  you  worry  your  dear 
little  head  about  that,"  he  said.  "  It's  you  that  mat- 
ters, and  you're  adorable  enough  for  a  prince.  See 
how  everybody  here  has  taken  to  you  already." 

"  Yes,  everybody  has  been  very  sweet  to  me.  I'm  so 
glad,  Freddy  dear,  for  your  sake.  But  I  only  wanted 
to  know — you  see  the  people  invited  to  dinner  to  meet 
me — well,  all  of  them  are  gentlemen,  of  course — any- 
body can  see  that ;  but  they  are  two  clergymen  and  an 
aitist,  aren't  they? — not  real  County  people,  I  mean." 

"  But,  Freda  darling !  "  expostulated  Fred,  more 
taken  aback  than  he  liked  to  admit  to  himself — "  they 
are  our  chief  friends.  It  was  just  like  a  little  family 
gathering;  we  can't  afford  to  give  regular  dinner 
parties.  I  told  you  that,  didn't  I?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  please  don't  think  I'm  grumbling. 
Of  course  I'd  much  rather  meet  your  real  friends  than 
the  others,  however  important  they  may  be.  I'm  the 
last  person  to  care  about  that  sort  of  thing.  But  Mr. 
Probert  and  Mr.  Bellamy  aren't  old  friends,  are  they? 
I  thought  you  hadn't  known  either  of  them  very  long." 

"  Well,  no ;  but  they  are  the  people  we  see  most  of 
just  at  present.  They  are  both  awfully  nice  fellows, 
too." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  them  both.  Besides,  from  what  I 
can  see  there's  something  going  on,  isn't  there?  But 


IN   THE   GARDEN  177 

I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that.  It's  just  that,  how- 
ever nice  they  are,  they  are  not  what  you  call  County 
people,  are  they?  That's  all  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  know  that  there's  such  a  hard  and  fast 
line  between  what  you  call  County  people  and  others 
as  you  seem  to  think,"  said  Fred,  speaking  with  less 
admiration  of  her  in  his  tone  than  he  had  ever  used 
before.  "  Anyhow,  whatever  the  test  may  be,  both 
Probert  and  Bellamy  would  pass  it  all  right." 

"  Oh,  would  they  ?  I  don't  know  anything  about 
them,  except  that  one  is  a  clergyman  and  the  other  an 
artist.  Tell  me  about  them,  Freddy.  I  like  Mr. 
Probert  especially,  and  he  certainly  does  look  as  if  he 
was  somebody." 

"  There's  nothing  much  to  tell.  I  believe  Probert's 
father  is  a  baronet,  and  Bellamy  comes  from  very  good 
people  up  in  the  north." 

"  Is  Mr.  Probert  the  eldest  son?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes,  old  Sophia  Raine  said  he  was, 
and  his  father's  very  rich.  I  believe  Bellamy's  father 
is  rich  too,  and  has  a  fine  place  in  Cumberland.  But 
Bellamy  has  an  elder  brother.  Is  there  anything  else 
you'd  like  to  know,  Freda?  " 

She  snuggled  up  to  him.  "  Don't  be  angry  with  me, 
Freddy  darling,"  she  said.  "  I  only  ask  questions  be- 
cause I  want  to  feel  quite  sure  in  my  own  mind  that 
people  aren't  looking  down  upon  me.  I  know  you 
wouldn't  like  that,  would  you?  It's  for  your  sake  I 
want  to  be  quite  certain." 

He  was  much  touched  by  this,  and  ashamed  of  him- 
self for  having  shown  ill  humour  towards  her.  Of 
course  he  must  trust  her  in  everything.  It  would  be 


178  WATERMEADS 

dreadful  if  he  were  to  get  in  the  way  of  feeling  an- 
noyance towards  her,  just  like  any  other  man  engaged 
to  a  girl  who  was  not  a  perfect  Freda.  There  was 
never  to  be  anything  like  that  between  him  and  her, 
and  wouldn't  be  if  he  always  remembered  what  she  was, 
and  that  anything  she  might  say  that  he  didn't  quite 
like  would  always  have  a  right  meaning  if  one  searched 
behind  the  speech  itself. 

"  Oh,  you  can  be  absolutely  certain,  darling,"  he 
said.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  beast  about  Probert 
and  Bellamy.  And  the  Raines  are  coming  to  dine  to- 
morrow. They  are  very  old  friends." 

"  That's  Lady  Sophia,  isn't  it?  Oh,  of  course  I 
know  that  you  are  all  inclined  to  treat  me  awfully  well, 
Freddy  darling.  It  makes  me  so  happy — to  feel  I'm 
really  wanted.  You  know  I  like  your  mother  most  aw- 
fully. You  never  told  me  how  nice  she  was;  you 
hardly  ever  said  anything  about  her.  I  had  the  idea 
that  she  was  rather — rather  formidable." 

Fred  laughed,  and  allowed  himself  a  squeeze  of  her 
slim  waist.  "  She  is  to  people  she  doesn't  like,"  he 
said.  "  It  just  shows  what  you  are,  darling,  that  she 
has  taken  to  you.  So  has  the  dear  old  Dad.  Isn't  he 
a  ripper?  He's  just  as  much  of  a  pal  as  if  he  were 
an  elder  brother." 

"  Oh,  I  love  him  awfully  already.  He  has  such  distin- 
guished manners,  though  I  must  say  I  was  rather  sur- 
prised by  his  costume  when  I  first  saw  him."  She  gave 
a  silvery  little  laugh.  "  But  I  suppose  he  is  above  car- 
ing what  he  looks  like,  and  in  evening  dress  nobody 
could  mistake  him  for  anything  but  what  he  is.  Nor 
your  mother,  either.  She  is  so  stately.  I'm  afraid  I 


IN   THE   GARDEN  179 

shall  never  be  like  that,  Freddy,  though  I  shall  try 
hard  to  behave  as  I  ought,  when  I'm  mistress  of 
Watermeads." 

Fred  put  this  speech  aside,  as  one  in  which  there 
must  be  some  meaning  creditable  to  Freda  which  was 
not  apparent  on  the  surface.  "  You  like  the  girls,  too, 
don't  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  They  are  quite  in  love  with 
you.  Rose  told  me  she  never  had  thought  I  had  such 
good  taste." 

"  Rose  is  a  darling,  and  so  pretty,  Freddy.  I  should 
be  quite  jealous  of  her  if  you  weren't  her  brother.  And 
I  like  Elsie,  too,  awfully.  As  for  Penelope,  she's  a 
perfect  darling." 

"  You  do  see  the  best  in  everybody,"  said  Fred 
fondly.  "  Penelope  isn't  a  bad  little  brat,  but  there's 
no  doubt  she  is  frightfully  spoilt,  and  there  are  some 
things  in  her  that  want  tackling  pretty  badly.  Elsie 
and  Rose  do  their  best,  but  she  doesn't  take 
much  notice  of  them.  It  would  be  splendid  if 
you  could  get  an  influence  over  her  and  improve 
her  a  bit." 

"  Perhaps  Elsie  and  Rose  don't  know  how  to  treat 
her.  I  think  she  is  perfectly  sweet  as  she  is.  She 
seems  to  like  me  already.  She  followed  me  about  with 
her  funny  solemn  eyes,  and  came  after  me  when  I  went 
to  my  room  to  dress.  I  was  so  glad  I'd  thought  of 
bringing  her  a  box  of  chocolates.  She  thanked  me  so 
prettily,  and  I  could  see  that  she  hadn't  the  least  idea 
that  I  should  have  brought  her  anything." 

Fred  did  not  feel  the  same  certainty  about  this,  but 
he  did  not  tell  Freda  so.  It  was  natural  that  Pe- 
nelope should  have  taken  a  fancy  to  one  so  beautiful 


180  WATERMEADS 

and  charming  as  Freda,  since  she  was  human  beneath 
her  numerous  faults.  And  she  could  not  have  a  bet- 
ter model.  It  was  delightful  to  think  of  Freda  al- 
ready taking  her  place  as  one  of  the  family,  and  Pe- 
nelope taking  to  her  as  a  sister,  and  benefiting  by  her 
sweet  example. 

He  expressed  these  ideas  with  admiring  gratitude, 
and  Freda  said  sweetly  and  modestly :  "  That  is  just 
what  I  want — to  be  made  one  of  the  family.  I  shall 
do  my  best  to  help  them  all.  I  think  Elsie  and  Rose 
look  perfectly  sweet,  considering  how  little  they  have 
to  dress  on;  but  I  know  I  can  do  something  for  them 
there,  if  they  will  let  me.  I  do  know  about  clothes,  and 
father  always  gives  me  what  I  want.  Freddy,  is  Mr. 
Probert  likely  to  fall  in  love  with  either  of  them? 
That  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  one  of  them, 
wouldn't  it?  Perhaps  I  might  do  something  to  help 
it  on,  if  there  is  any  chance  of  it." 

"  You  dear  sweet  thing ! "  said  Fred,  allowing  him- 
self another  kiss ;  "  always  thinking  about  what  you 
can  do  for  others !  I  do  love  you  for  it,  Freda. 
But  I  think  it's  Olivia  that  he's  likely  to  fall  in 
love  with,  if  anybody,  from  what  they  have  written 
to  me." 

"  Oh,  but  surely  that  wouldn't  be  a  suitable  match, 
would  it?  For  him,  I  mean.  Mr.  Bonner  isn't  any- 
body particular,  is  he?  " 

Again  that  uneasy  sense,  which  Fred  had  to  stifle. 
"  I  should  think  Olivia  would  be  good  enough  for 
anybody,"  he  said,  a  shade  stiffly.  "  She's  beauti- 
ful, and  awfully  nice,  and  clever,  and  as  good  as  gold, 
too." 


IN  THE   GARDEN  181 

Freda  showed  pettishness.  "  I  believe  you're  in  love 
with  her  yourself,"  she  said,  drawing  away  from  him. 
"  I  don't  think  she's  beautiful  at  all,  only  good-look- 
ing, in  a  sort  of  stuck-up  way  I  don't  admire.  The 
first  time  I  set  eyes  on  her  I  didn't  like  her,  and  now 
I  know  why." 

Fred  was  completely  bowled  over  by  this  extraordi- 
nary speech,  so  different  from  anything  that  he  had 
ever  heard  or  expected  to  hear  from  Freda.  But 
further  investigation,  during  which  Freda  allowed  her- 
self gradually  to  be  brought  round,  revealed  the 
source  of  it  to  be  a  gratifying  jealousy,  which  touched 
him  immensely.  Of  course,  compared  to  Freda,  Olivia 
could  hardly  lay  claim  to  beauty  of  any  sort,  and  at 
first  sight  might  almost  be  said  to  be  plain.  He 
couldn't  help  liking  her  and  admiring  her  character, 
and  always  should  do  so,  as  she  was  almost  like  a 
sister  to  him;  but  compared  to  Freda,  she  was  nothing 
to  him  whatever.  Surely  Freda  darling  must  know 
that !  It  must  be  obvious  to  everybody. 

Freda  darling  begged  pardon  very  prettily  for  a  lit- 
tle display  of  jealousy  which  she  had  not  been  able 
to  help.  "  But  I  don't  like  her,  all  the  same,  Freddy 
dear,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sure  she  is  designing,  and  we 
shall  see  by  and  by  if  I'm  not  right.  But  we  needn't 
talk  about  her  any  more.  I'm  quite  satisfied  that  you 
don't  care  for  her,  and  I  was  very  silly  to  think  that 
you  did.  I'll  give  you  a  kiss  to  show  that  I'm  sorry. 
There  now !  I  think  we  won't  stay  here  any  longer. 
They  will  all  wonder  where  we've  got  to." 

So  the  little  disturbance  was  most  sweetly  healed, 
and  as  they  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house  again, 


182  WATERMEADS 

under  the  spangled  ceiling  of  night,  Fred  felt  that  he 
was  indeed  the  happiest  of  men  to  have  this  adorable 
girl  hanging  on  his  arm,  and  the  prospect  of  spending 
his  life  with  her  before  him. 


(("^i  ijnoqB 

-1}\   B    9ABq   Ol   J9AO    9UIOO    9AJ   A^l[Al   SJBqj,       *S9A[DSUiai{^ 

aoj  dn  }t  xu  a[doad  SunoA  aq:j.  ajopq  maq:}  uo 
o^  s^ua-iBd  aqi  aoj  puB  'A*BAI  pauotqsBj-pio  UB  ui 
asaq^  ^Baa^  o^  Suii{^  p«q  B  ijons  sji 

iBll  i^H     '°°1  'aail  °^  ^^u^J  ^wajS  B  ua5(B^  stsq 
iCoq  A'UI  }«i{}  pug  o^  —  paapui  ajnsuafd 
BUI 


9Atj     'jaq  jo  ^uaui^^aj^  ^zo.  ui  jo  m^duioo  o^  qonra 

9uo  ^qSij  gq^  9ui  sSuuq  9q  ji 
«  SB  |Ji§  30iu  B  301  Suuq  o^  uiiq 
j     '3SBO  siq  ui  si  siaq^  SB  'psujaouoD  [Bap  pooS  B 


I  3JJ  „      'pIBS  3q  <4p3UJBUI      Oq  AUI  33S 
J  „       'J3UUBUI    ^UBSB3[dun    ^OU    ^nq    *SuiSlUOJ^B 

'^uspuuoo   siq  ut  p3p99Doad  A^qji^  pjo^j  *^u9ui9Dunoa 
-UB  3t{i  o|  A*^daj  ut  Suiq^A*UB  A"BS  ^ou  pip  A*3upA"g  sy 

*^UBSB3[dun   SS3J  3q^   3UOU 

SBM  jpoqs  [[Bius  aq^  ^ng;  '3SO)j  puB  A*qji3  5[OBf»  uo 
Suiuunj  A*j:ju3nb3.ij  os  puira  siq  q^y^i  'ssodand  siq  jo 
3ABq  ^qSiuu  3q  *dn  ^Bq^  3j^3S  o^. 
Bq^  puiui  siq  ui  ^i  pBq  ^ou  pBq 
3q  jj  '^U3^B  s4A*qj[i^;  p-ioi;  q^tAV  psssnosrp  A*^UO  JBJ 
os  pBq  3q  qoiqAi  'ssi^asdoad  SuiuiofpB  Jttaq^  q^J^  op 
uoi^sanb  B  SBAI 

3JJ        ' 


tAv  A*qjt^[  pao^j  piBS  <4'iatS  jnoA*  puB  ^oq  A*UI 


•3uop  3ABq  ^ou  pjnoM 
ut  UBui3^u3^  B  o>[t[  pa5[oo[  aq 


PUB  auioopM  o^  pa5{SB  Suiaq  SBAV  aq  aaaq  puB  'j 
jpuf  ^daooB  uru  Suo\  aqi  ui  }ou  pjno.w.  aso|j  }Bqi  adoq 
aqi  o^  'Aiaujf  aq  UBq^  aaoui  sdBqaad  'Sunp  psq  aq 
•aso^j  raojj  aaq^jnj  [ji^s  uiiq  Sut^j«d  jo  ^oajya  aqi 
^f[uo  ppOAi  pu^qsnq  ajn^nj  s4aso|j  aoj  a^s^^sip  Moqs  o^. 
PUB  '^uasuoo  p^uaa«d  Sutsnjaa  aoj  uos«aj  a^wnbapB  ou 
j  Suuq  pjnoo  ajj  'rall{  pa^daooB  aso^j  jt  ' 
35[ijsip  siq  AVO^B  ^ou  ^snui  aq  *5[OBf  SunoAT 
-sip  A*{jBUOSjad  aq  SB  qonj\[  'puira  siq  dn  apBiu  aouts 
pBq  aq  jps^i  a^BUJBiu  pa^saSSns  aq^  uodj^  uaAa 
O}  ^[daj  ^UB  Sm^em  jo  ^uauioui  aq^  JGJ  ajq 
t  a^tnb  SBAV  aq  ^Bq^  putui  s4A*aupA*g  ut  ^[^oq  os 
SBM  puB  'qoaads  siq  ^Cq  pasnojB  uaaq  pBq 
puB  aaSuB  jo  uuo^s  aq^  jo  Bapi  ^UB 
aq  ji  pasijdjns  ajoiu  ^i^s  uaaq  aABq  ppOM  ajj 
•^C^id  puB  ^duia^uoo  uaaAi^aq  Suipaj  B  pBq  aq 
joj  'UBUI  jnjssaoonsun  ppo  siq^  ^q  poo^saapun  a^inb 
uaaq  pBq  Sut?[Biu  ^|snojauaS  os  SBM  aq  Jajy 
aqi  jaq^aqM  japuo^i  o^  pauipui  puB  'uoissajdxa 
)Cq  pasudans  ^BqAiauios  SBAV  A*qji^  p-io'j  puB 
-aj  A*jo^onpoj^ui  siq  jo  pua  aq^  o^  auiBD  aq  SB 
-Bfiqnf  ssaadxa  ^[^oBxa  ^ou  pip  aoBj  s4^aupA*g 

•A*of  jo  suBaBd  puB 

suraA*q  ^nq  Suiq^^uB  q^iM  ^i  ^daoDB  pjnoAY  A'aq^  ^Bq^ 
pBaq  siq  paaa^ua  JdAau  pBq  ^i  'apis  ^BAVUO^  aq^  UIQJJ 
qo^Biu  aq^  ^noqB  ^poujip  A!UB  JGJ  SB  puB  tajBD  ^ 
aq  ^ou  ji  puB  'ssa^iuuad  auioo  ^jqBqoad  pjnoAi  aqs 
Aiau5j  ajj  uaq^Bj  s4aso|j  q^iM  aSuBjiB  o^  uiiq  aoj  Sui 
-q^ou  SBM  aaaq^  joj  ^i  ^noqB  5({B^  o^  pa^uB^w  aq  ^Bq^ 
*puiui  siq  ui  SBAI  uiiq  o^  pa^^iuipB  pBq  ajnssajd  aapun 
5[OBf»  qoiqM  'aso^j  o^  Suisodoad  5[OB£»  jo  Bapi  aq^  ^B 
pa^ioxa  os  SBAV  aq  asnBDaq  aaAO  auioo  A*jjBaj  pBq  ajj 

SIS  M3IAH3XNI  NV 


CHAPTER    XIV 

WILL  SHE  DO? 

"  WELL,  my  dear  Jane,  of  course  the  girl  is  suburban 
and  middle-class  and  second  rate,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  I've  a  strong  suspicion  that  she's  a  minx 
besides,  but  I  think  she'll  do.  I  congratulate  you." 

Lady  Sophia  Raine  was  alone  with  Mrs.  Conway. 
The  night  being  as  warm  and  still  as  the  last,  Colonel 
Raine  was  smoking  with  Sydney  on  the  terrace,  and  the 
girls  were  with  them.  Fred  and  Freda  had  lost  them- 
selves in  the  garden,  as  before. 

Mrs.  Conway  digested  her  friend's  surprising 
speech;  or,  rather,  made  a  preliminary  effort  to  swal- 
low it,  but  without  success. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  say  that  of  her,"  she  said. 
"  Her  manners  strike  me  as  particularly  good,  and  no- 
body could  possibly  find  any  fault  with  her  appear- 
ance, or  her  dress.  Why  do  you  say  that  she  is  sec- 
ond-rate ?  " 

"  Well,  she  shows  a  disposition  to  address  me  as 
Lady  Raine,  for  one  thing,  which  is  always  a  sign. 
But  she'll  learn  all  that  sort  of  thing  quickly  enough, 
and  there's  nothing  in  it.  I  said  she'd  do,  and  I  meant 
it." 

"  I  must  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Conway  ponderously, 
"  that  the  way  she  takes  trouble  to  commend  herself 
to  me  pleases  me.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be 

183 


184  WATERMEADS 

ashamed  of  it.  I  have  a  right  to  expect,  perhaps,  that 
I  should  get  consideration  in  my  own  house,  but  the 
fact  is  that  I  do  not  always  receive  it.  I  sometimes 
think " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  she  would  pay  attention  to  you. 
She  will  be  very  careful  to  get  herself  in — with  every- 
body that  she  thinks  matters  at  all.  She  doesn't  know 
whether  I  matter  or  not  yet,  but  as  I've  got  a  title 
she  thinks  I  probably  do,  and  anyhow  it  won't  hurt 
her  to  be  civil.  When  she's  got  herself  in,  and  has 
what  she  wants,  so  that  nobody  can  take  it  away  from 
her,  the  minx  will  come  out.  But  by  that  time  you  will 
have  got  all  you  want,  too,  so  it  needn't  disturb  you. 
It's  Fred  who  will  have  to  tackle  that,  and  he  won't 
see  through  her  for  many  a  long  day.  She's  quite 
pretty  enough  to  hold  any  man,  if  she  takes  a  little 
trouble  about  it." 

"  Really,  Sophia,  you  do  let  your  tongue  run  away 
with  you ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Conway,  in  some  offence. 
"  Pray  what  is  it  that  we  want,  except  that  Fred  shall 
be  happy  with  the  girl  he  has  chosen  ?  " 

"  We  want  her  money,  Jane.  I  say  *  we,'  because 
not  having  any  children  of  my  own  I  take  more  interest 
in  yours  than  in  any  other  young  people.  In  fact,  I 
look  upon  them  almost  as  my  own,  especially  Fred, 
who  is  my  godson.  If  I  have  any  money  to  leave  I 
shall  probably  leave  it  to  him.  But  it  won't  be  much, 
unless  George  dies  before  me  and  leaves  me  all  his.  But 
anyhow  that's  a  long  way  off  yet,  and  we  needn't  talk 
about  it.  Well,  I've  found  out  all  about  the  Blumen- 
thal  man,  and  there's  no  doubt  that  he's  immensely 
rich, — and  rich  in  a  solid  businesslike  kind  of  way  that 


WILL    SHE   DO?  185 

doesn't  mean  he'll  be  immensely  poor  tomorrow.  This 
girl  is  his  only  child,  and  if  he  is  properly  handled  I 
should  think  he  would  give  her  all  the  money  that's 
necessary  as  long  as  he's  alive,  and  leave  her  a  large 
fortune  when  he  dies." 

"  Well,  of  course  the  money  side  of  the  question  can- 
not be  left  out  altogether." 

"  Oh,  no.  It's  the  only  one  that  really  matters.  I 
shouldn't  have  liked  Fred  to  marry  only  for  the  sake 
of  money,  at  all  events  while  he's  young.  But  he  has 
been  sensible  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  who  has 
it,  and  she's  quite  clever  enough,  and  pretty  enough, 
to  carry  it  off.  She'll  learn  all  our  little  ways  in  no 
time,  and  if  she'll  watch  that  mouth  of  hers  a  bit,  and 
rely  on  general  all-around  amiability  as  her  strong  suit, 
she'll  get  on  very  well,  and  we  shan't  find  much  to 
grumble  at  in  her." 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  -you  talking  in  that  way  of 
Freda,"  said  Mrs.  Conway  decisively.  She  had  de- 
termined what  to  say,  and  to  say  it  in  spite  of  inter- 
ruption. But  Lady  Sophia  did  not  interrupt  her  till 
she  had  finished  the  main  part  of  her  speech.  She 
knew  that  tone,  and  respected  it,  within  limits.  "  I  am 
strongly  inclined  to  take  to  the  girl  as  a  daughter," 
Mrs.  Conway  proceeded.  "  The  deep  affection  which  is 
part  of  my  character  is  apt  to  be  thrown  back  upon 
me.  I  would  not  say  this  to  anyone  but  you,  and  I 
impute  blame  to  nobody.  But,  with  one  exception,  my 
children  put  little  value  upon  my  love  for  them.  They 
have  been  taught — I  think  most  wrongly — to  disre- 
gard their  mother.  Now  I  trust  to  Freda  to  make  up 
to  me  something  of  what  I  miss.  I  do  not  think  I  am 


186  WATERMEADS 

mistaken  in  my  judgment  of  her.  I  know  that  you  go 
about  the  world  more  than  I  do  now,  Sophia,  but  I 
sometimes  think  that  a  woman,  not  perhaps  altogether 
lacking  in  natural  intelligence,  who  keeps  at  home  and 
has  much  time  for  thought " 

"  Oh,  well,"  interrupted  Lady  Sophia,  at  last,  "  if 
you  are  inclined  to  like  the  girl,  so  much  the  better, 
Jane.  I  don't  dislike  her  myself,  not  in  the  least.  As 
I  said,  she'll  do  very  well.  But  there's  not  much  in- 
terest in  discussing  that  side  of  the  question.  You 
ought  not  to  put  her  above  Elsie  and  Rose,  who  are 
each  worth  six  of  her,  and  I  don't  think  you  have  much 
to  complain  of  in  their  treatment  of  you.  But  all  that 
is  your  own  affair  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
What  is  interesting  is  the  money  side,  and  if  you  and 
Sydney — especially  Sydney — play  your  cards  well, 
you'll  get  all  you  want  to  put  Watermeads  back  into 
its  proper  place  as  one  of  the  great  houses  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  yourselves  with  it." 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  you  have  in  your  mind, 
Sophia,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  ruffled  at  being  told  her 
duty  with  regard  to  her  daughters.  "  Mr.  Blumenthal 
may  be  as  rich  as  you  say — I  have  not  made  it  my 
business  to  enquire — but " 

"  Well,  I  think  you  ought  to  have  done — either  you 
or  Sydney — but  you're  both  of  you  thoroughly  un- 
practical in  money  matters.  However,  you  have 
friends  who  are  pleased  to  give  themselves  a  little  trou- 
ble on  your  account,  and  I  did  make  it  my  business  to 
enquire;  and  the  result  of  my  enquiries  is  quite  satis- 
factory. Now  what  you  have  to  remember,  Jane — 
you  and  Sydney — and  it's  rather  important — is  that 


WILL   SHE   DO?  187 

you  have  a  good  deal  to  offer  on  your  side.  You  are 
rather  too  fond  of  abasing  yourself  because  of  your 
lack  of  means,  and  what  I  want  to  impress  upon  you 
is  that  that  isn't  at  all  the  line  to  take  in  this  case." 

"  A  decent  poverty,"  began  Mrs.  Conway,  but  Lady 
Sophia  was  now  fully  launched,  and  not  inclined  to 
tarry  in  her  course  for  discussion. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that,"  she  said.  "  When 
you  are  dealing  with  people  of  our  own  sort  you  can 
talk  as  much  as  you  like  about  decent  poverty.  I 
think  myself  that  you  overdo  it,  and  it  makes  people 
uncomfortable  about  something  they  wouldn't  bother 
about  at  all  if  you  would  let  them  alone.  But  my 
point  is  that  with  these  Blumenthals  you  want  to  for- 
get it  altogether.  You  have  a  good  old  name,  a  fine 
house,  a  large  property,  and  those  are  the  things  you 
must  keep  in  the  foreground.  A  new  rich  man  like  this 
might  buy  the  land  and  the  house  if  it  suited  him,  but 
he  couldn't  buy  the  name  and  all  that  it  stands  for. 
He  knows  that  well  enough,  and  he  isn't  likely  to 
under-rate  the  name  either.  That  sort  of  person 
thinks  a  great  deal  more  about  that  sort  of  thing  than 
we  do.  Now — please  don't  interrupt  me — my  point  is 
this:  Mr.  Blumenthal  can't  expect  his  daughter  to  cut 
a  dash  as  mistress  of  Watermeads  for  some  time  to 
come,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  but  there's  no 
reason  why  she  shouldn't  hitch  herself  on  to  it,  with 
the  money  he  ought  to  give  her,  from  the  first.  You've 
turned  your  dower-house  into  a  farm.  Very  well,  turn 
it  back  again,  for  the  young  couple.  Let  them  live 
there,  in  a  manner  fitting  for  the  wealth  they  will  have, 
and  let  Fred  spend  money  on  the  place,  and  get  it  back 


188  WATERMEADS 

to  what  it  used  to  be.  That's  reasonable  enough,  and 
Blumenthal  ought  to  see  it,  if  he's  properly  dealt  with. 
You  will  benefit  as  long  as  Sydney  is  alive,  for  if  he 
doesn't  have  to  put  all  the  money  he  gets  from  the 
place  back  into  it,  you'll  have  more  to  spend ;  and  Fred 
and  his  wife  will  benefit  too,  for  they  will  step  straight 
into  a  well  kept-up  property  instead  of  a  dilapidated 
one.  It  will  be  a  good  bargain  for  all  concerned." 

It  all  appeared  highly  reasonable  to  Mrs.  Conway, 
and  she  wondered  that  her  husband  hadn't  thought  of 
it  before.  "  If  I  could  trust  Sydney  to  do  the  sensible 
thing,"  she  said. 

"  I  shouldn't  trust  Sydney  to  do  anything.  Sydney 
is  a  very  good  fellow — nobody  has  a  greater  liking 
for  him  than  I  have — but  he's  hopeless  where  anything 
like  negotiation  is  wanted.  The  way  he  gave  in  to 
George  about  those  fishing  rights !  I  told  George  that 
it  was  like  taking  advantage  of  a  baby,  and  he  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself.  But  he  said  that  Sydney 
threw  everything  at  his  head,  and  he  got  more  than  he 
wanted  before  he  asked  for  anything.  No,  leave  Syd- 
ney out  of  it,  Jane,  and  do  it  yourself.  You  have 
the  character;  you  only  go  wrong  now  because  you 
concentrate  all  your  efforts  on  twopenny  halfpenny 
little  things  that  don't  matter,  like  docking  the  serv- 
ants of  their  butter.  You  talk  to  Blumenthal, 
when  affairs  come  to  be  settled,  and  don't  forget  that 
it's  you  who  are  giving  most  in  this  marriage,  and 
not  him." 

"  I  dare  say  I  could  put  the  case  clearly,  if  I  am 
permitted  to  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  The  idea 
of  settling  Fred  and  Freda  at  Watermeads  is  certainly 


WILL   SHE   DO?  189 

a  good  one;  but  you  forget  that  Fred  is  now  engaged 
to  work  for  his  uncle,  Mark  Drake.  He  will  have  to 
live  in  London." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Jane,  that  is  just  where  your 
imagination  is  so  limited.  Mark  Drake  has  seen  this 
girl,  and  approved  of  her — or  rather  of  her  money, 
which  he  has  certainly  found  out  all  about,  unless  he's 
a  very  different  Mark  Drake  from  the  one  I  used  to 
know.  Do  you  think  he  will  stand  in  the  way  of  any- 
thing that  is  for  Fred's  benefit,  especially  as  it  will 
relieve  him  of  any  obligation  to  provide  money  himself, 
which  he  was  always  very  close  with?  If  he  wants 
Fred,  what  is  to  prevent  them  having  a  flat  or  a  lit- 
tle house  in  London  as  well?  He  couldn't  possibly  give 
him  enough  to  do  to  prevent  his  spending  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  here.  Oh,  no ;  you  needn't  expect  op- 
position from  Mark  Drake.  It's  whether  you  are 
strong  enough  to  crack  the  hard  nut  that  Blumenthal 
is  likely  to  be  that  I'm  doubtful  about.  I  wish  I  had 
the  doing  of  it  myself.  I  should  like  to  pit  myself 
against  a  successful  man  of  business.  I  think  he  would 
admit  that  he  had  met  his  match,  after  we  had  fin- 
ished." 

Mrs.  Conway  privately  thought  that  she  herself  was 
as  capable  of  dealing  with  a  man  of  business  as  Sophia 
Raine,  but  her  respect  for  her  friend's  capabilities  led 
her  to  turn  over  in  her  mind  the  advice  she  had  re- 
ceived, and  to  act  upon  some  of  it.  Her  own  feeling 
in  the  matter  had  prompted  her  to  refrain  from  dwell- 
ing so  much  on  the  note  of  poverty  before  Freda,  as 
has  already  been  said,  but  she  now  determined  to  dis- 
pense with  its  over-familiar  tone  altogether,  and  to 


190  WATERMEADS 

take  a  higher  line  with  Freda  than  she  had  jet  done, 
while  still  retaining  the  approving  quality  of  her  at- 
titude towards  her.  She  also  made  up  her  mind  to 
write  privately  to  Mr.  Blumenthal  and  suggest  an  in- 
terview. She  would  ask  him  to  run  down — it  was  only 
a  three  hours'  journey — on  the  day  after  next,  when 
the  whole  family  would  be  out  on  a  picnic.  She  had 
intended  to  make  one  of  the  party  herself,  but  could 
easily  find  an  excuse  for  staying  behind;  and  when 
they  returned  in  the  evening  she  would  have  something 
to  tell  them.  Her  husband  would  see, — all  of  them 
would  see, — what  could  be  done  to  put  affairs  on  a 
right  footing,  if  she  for  once  had  them  entirely  in  her 
own  hands.  And  perhaps,  afterwards,  a  little  more 
attention  would  be  paid  to  her  opinions,  which  were 
apt  to  be  dealt  with  in  a  spirit  of  banter  that  she  found 
it  difficult  to  support  with  patience. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  from  Lady  Sophia's  out- 
spoken criticism  of  Freda,  that  that  charming  young 
person  had  done  anything  in  the  first  clear  day  of  her 
visit  to  lessen  the  good  impression  she  had  already 
made.  Lady  Sophia  criticised  everybody,  and  the  fact 
that  Freda  had  once  inadvertently  addressed  her  as 
Lady  Raine,  and  seldom  addressed  her  at  all  without 
tacking  on  a  '  Lady  Sophia  '  to  her  speech,  was  quite 
enough  to  account  for  Lady  Sophia's  setting  down  of 
her  as  second-rate.  It  is  true  that  she  had  seized  upon 
the  shape  of  Freda's  mouth  as  tending  to  qualify  con- 
fidence in  the  entire  amiability  of  her  manner;  but  no- 
body else  had  yet  noticed  that,  except  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment Elsie,  who  had  since  forgotten  it,  and  it  was  no 
doubt  Lady  Sophia's  habit  of  pushing  all  her  discov- 


WILL    SHE   DO?  191 

eries  to  their  limit  that  had  led  her  to  advance  the 
opinion  that  Freda  was  essentially  a  minx. 

An  hour  had  been  spent  after  breakfast  in  going 
over  the  house.  At  this  time  of  the  day  Mrs.  Con- 
way  was  much  immersed  in  household  affairs,  and 
Elsie  and  Rose  were  expected  to  *  help  '  her.  This  they 
always  did  with  a  serene  good  humour  that  was  proof 
against  the  annoyance  of  much  waste  of  time  devoted 
to  argument  of  small  points.  If  Mrs.  Conway  had 
been  content  to  sit  in  her  parlour  and  give  her  orders, 
the  girls  would  have  carried  them  out,  with  the  help 
of  the  servants,  in  half  the  time  that  it  took  to  get 
through  what  had  to  be  done.  But  it  was  only  in  the 
afternoon  that  Mrs.  Conway  took  up  her  position  as 
one  apart  from  domestic  affairs.  In  the  morning  she 
descended  into  details,  as  she  thought  to  be  required 
of  her  in  the  state  to  which  her  establishment  had  been 
reduced.  She  was,  indeed,  wholly  admirable  in  the  way 
in  which  she  did  her  best  to  stem  the  always  rising  tide 
of  money  difficulties,  by  doing  herself  many  things  that 
she  would  have  preferred  to  leave  to  servants.  If  her 
ability  had  been  equal  to  her  will,  the  burden  of  pov- 
erty would  hardly  have  weighed  on  Watermeads  at  all, 
as  far  as  domestic  arrangements  were  concerned. 

The  great  hall  and  the  dining-room  Freda  had  al- 
ready seen,  but  some  attention  was  given  to  the  pic- 
tures in  both  these  apartments.  Some  of  them  were 
by  great  artists ;  others  were  said  to  be,  and  amongst 
them  the  putative  Holbein.  This  was  a  noble  por- 
trait, whoever  it  was  by,  of  a  sad  faced  woman  in 
black,  who,  however,  was  not  an  ancestress.  "  We 
don't  go  so  far  back  as  that,"  said  Sydney.  I  don't 


192  WATERMEADS 

know  what  we  were  in  those  days — yeoman  farmers, 
I  fancy.  I  shall  look  it  all  up  some  day.  There's 
only  a  missing  tombstone  between  us  and  the  Conways 
of  Vale,  who  were  wiped  out  in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses. 
Great  swells,  they  were.  We  began  with  Grandfather 
Robert,  who  founded  Conway's  Bank  in  the  reign  of 
James  I.  I  wish  we  had  stuck  to  the  bank.  We 
should  have  been  amongst  the  highest,  but  I  don't  know 
that  it  would  have  made  much  difference  to  us  after 
all.  Here  is  Grandfather  Robert,  with  his  snub  nose. 
We  called  Bobby  after  him  chiefly  because  he  had  a 
snub  nose  as  a  baby.  But  as  you  see  it  has  since  im- 
proved in  shape.  Still,  I  think  we'll  make  a  banker  of 
Bobby,  all  the  same.  He  can  get  rich  and  found 
another  branch  of  the  family." 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  be  an  explorer,"  said 
Bobby.  "  Last  winter  I  slept  several  times  on  the 
floor,  and  one  morning  when  I  woke  up  there  was  ice 
in  my  water- jug." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  beginning,"  said  his  father. 
"  Very  well,  Bobby,  you  shall  be  an  explorer." 

"  I  think  you'll  make  a  splendid  explorer,"  said 
Freda  admiringly.  "  You  look  so  strong,  and  as  if  you 
could  stand  a  good  deal  of  hardship." 

"  I  am  going  to  be  a  soldier,"  said  Billy,  unwilling 
that  Bobby  should  draw  to  himself  more  than  his  fair 
share  of  this  gratifying  attention.  "  I  shall  work 
hard  and  become  a  General." 

"  That  will  be  lovely,  Billy,"  said  Freda.  "  It  will 
make  me  very  proud  to  have  a  General  as  a  brother- 
in-law." 

"  Do   explorers    and    Generals    have   dirty    nails  ? " 


WILL   SHE   DO?  193 

asked  Penelope  sweetly.  Bobby  and  Billy  threw  looks 
of  baffled  hate  towards  her.  They  were  in  a  constant 
state  of  warfare  with  Penelope,  and  were  at  present  at 
the  height  of  a  feud  in  which  they  were  always  being 
worsted. 

"  Don't  be  rude,  Mother  Bunch,"  said  Sydney.  But 
Freda  drew  her  towards  her  and  kissed  her,  with  a 
laugh.  "  She  doesn't  mean  to  be  rude,"  she  said,  "  but 
only  funny.  7  know  well  enough  that  manly  boys 
can't  always  be  expected  to  keep  their  hands  like  a 
girl's." 

"  This  is  Grandfather  William — Billy  was  called 
after  him — who  gave  up  the  bank  and  settled  down  at 
Watermeads  as  a  country  gentleman.  And  this  is  his 
wife,  Lady  Penelope;  Mother  Bunch  was  called  after 
her.  We  always  suspected  that  it  was  Grandmother 
Penelope  who  persuaded  Grandfather  William  to  give 
up  the  bank.  She  was  a  lady  of  title,  and  no  doubt 
thought  the  City  was  low.  Their  son,  Grandfather 
Frederick — Fred  was  called  after  him — the  paint 
peeled  off  his  nose,  and  he  has  been  relegated  to  the 
billiard-room,  where  you  will  see  him — also  married 
a  lady  of  title,  in  fact  a  Duke's  daughter.  Sir  Joshua 
painted  her,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  she  has  gone  out  of 
the  family.  But  there's  a  print  of  the  picture  some- 
where. You  see  we  were  quite  high  up  in  those  days, 
Freda.  But  the  Duke's  daughter  was  the  culminating 
point.  We  couldn't  keep  it  up  at  that  pitch." 

"  I'm  afraid  7  shall  be  rather  a  come-down  after  the 
two  ladies  of  title,"  said  Freda  with  arch  sweetness. 

"  My  dear,  you're  better  than  any  of  them,"  said 
Sydney.  "  We'll  have  you  painted  by  Sargent,  and 


194  WATERMEADS 

you'll  make  up  for  the  Sir  Joshua  that  we've 
lost." 

Freda  blushed  and  looked  pleased.  Fred  squeezed 
her  arm,  and  told  her  that  she  would  make  a  much 
prettier  picture  than  the  Sir  Joshua. 

Freda  was  much  impressed  by  the  great  drawing- 
room,  the  library,  and  the  ball-room,  all  opening  out 
of  one  another  and  occupying  the  front  of  one-half 
of  the  ground  floor.  It  was  long  since  any  of  these 
rooms  had  been  used,  except  the  ball-room,  where  bad- 
minton and  other  games  were  played  in  wet  weather. 
The  furniture  was  mostly  covered  up,  and  there  were 
more  signs  of  dilapidations  in  the  framework  of  the 
rooms  themselves  than  in  other  parts  of  the  house. 
But  they  were  splendid  rooms,  proportioned  and  dec- 
orated with  all  the  skill  of  the  early  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, and  Freda  was  loud  in  her  expressions  of  ad- 
miration. She  made  light  of  the  somewhat  depressing 
signs  of  decay  that  were  everywhere  apparent,  and  in 
such  a  way  that  Fred  squeezed  her  arm  again  as  a 
token  of  how  well  he  understood  the  way  in  which  she 
identified  herself  with  the  family's  happy  way  of  tak- 
ing its  misfortunes,  and  how  grateful  he  felt  for  it. 

But  his  father  turned  away  a  little  abruptly.  "  Now 
we  will  go  to  the  rooms  we  do  keep  up,"  he  said. 
"  They  are  not  so  fine,  but  we  manage  to  make  our- 
selves happy  in  them." 

The  parlour  was  panelled  and  carved  and  plastered 
— a  charming  restful  room  in  which  there  were  numer- 
ous signs  of  the  family's  occupation,  and  few  of  any- 
thing more  than  a  constant  use  of  old  furnishings. 
But  Freda  went  a  trifle  off  the  track  here  in  her  ad- 


WILL   SHE   DO?  195 

miring  comments.  She  had  little  to  say  about  the  per- 
fect panelling,  except  that  it  must  make  the  room 
rather  dark  in  the  winter,  and  suggested,  as  a  lumi- 
nous idea,  that  there  was  quite  enough  good  stuff  left 
in  the  brocaded  curtains  of  the  great  drawing-room 
to  permit  of  their  being  adapted  for  the  parlour. 

Fred  again  thought  that  she  was  behaving  extraor- 
dinarily well  in  being  ready  to  adapt  herself  to  the 
unfortunate  necessities  of  Conway  contrivance,  since 
she  could  have  had  small  experience  of  such  adapta- 
tions. But  Sydney  said  rather  stiffly :  "  They  wouldn't 
be  in  keeping  with  this  room;  and  these  do  very  well." 

A  visit  was  paid  to  the  back  regions,  partly  because 
they  were  in  the  oldest  part  of  the  house  and  there 
were  architectural  features  to  be  shown,  partly  for  the 
purpose  of  introducing  Freda  to  the  cook. 

Mrs.  Conway  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen  swathed  in 
a  large  white  apron.  She  was  arguing  majestically 
about  the  respective  prices  of  coke  and  coal,  with 
Elsie,  Rose  and  the  cook  standing  before  her,  and  en- 
deavouring to  explain  to  her  that  they  agreed  with 
every  word  she  said.  She  left  off  when  the  exploratory 
party  made  its  incursion,  and  changed  her  expression 
of  offended  hauteur  into  one  of  stately  welcome,  as 
her  eyes  fell  upon  Freda. 

"  You  mustn't  mind  seeing  me  directing  household 
affairs  in  this  way,"  she  said  in  allusion  to  her  apron, 
which  she  proceeded  to  take  off.  "  If  I  did  not  see 
to  things  myself  nothing  would  go  right.  However,  I 
have  finished  now,  and  have  time  to  pay  you  some  at- 
tention, Freda.  I  should  like  you  to  notice  this  range. 
We  use  very  little  of  it,  as  you  see,  but  if  we  were  to 


196  WATERMEADS 

use  it  all  it  would  take  a  quarter  of  a  ton  of  coal  a 
day." 

Freda  threw  a  hurried  complimentary  glance  at  the 
kitchen  range,  but  Sydney  was  already  in  process  of 
introducing  her  to  the  cook,  who  stood,  a  solid  bul- 
wark of  comfortable  womanhood,  wiping  her  hands  on 
her  apron,  and  smiling  all  over  her  broad  face. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  Miss,  this  is  a  pleasure,"  she  said, 
shaking  hands  with  Freda  and  looking  at  her  admir- 
ingly. "  I  did  'ave  a  peep  at  you  last  night  as  you 
was  setting  at  dinner,  and  I  said  to  myself  '  Bless  your 
pretty  face!  Mr.  Fred's  got  the  right  one  in  you,  / 
know.'  And  you  got  the  right  one  in  him,  you  know, 
Miss.  But  there!  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  feel  about 
that." 

The  simple  soul  turned  away  to  wipe  her  eyes,  which 
were  welling  with  sympathy  and  affection.  Freda  had 
omitted  to  prepare  a  speech  for  her,  and  was  some- 
what at  a  loss  in  face  of  this  emotion.  "  I'm  sure  I'm 
very  pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  with  the  sweetest 
of  smiles,  and  then  turned  to  exclaim  at  the  kitchen 
range  and  its  capacity  for  the  consumption  of  fuel. 


CHAPTER    XV 

A  TENNIS  PARTY 

"  Now,  Freddy  dear,  we  must  behave  ourselves  this 
afternoon.  We  must  just  make  ourselves  two  of  the 
family  party.  We  shall  have  our  lovely  time  together 
in  the  garden  this  evening.  This  afternoon  I'm  hardly 
going  to  take  any  notice  of  you  at  all." 

It  was  still  the  first  day  of  Freda's  visit.  Olivia  and 
some  others  were  coming  to  play  tennis,  and  Probert 
and  Bellamy  were  to  be  of  the  party  as  usual. 

"  Well,  of  course  we're  all  going  to  be  jolly  to- 
gether," said  Fred,  somewhat  dashed  in  spirit  by  his 
enslaver's  announcement ;  "  but  I  don't  see  why  you 
shouldn't  take  any  notice  of  me.  We  can  play  to- 
gether, and  sometimes  we  can  have  a  little  stroll.  None 
of  the  others  will  mind." 

"  No,  but  I  shall,"  said  Freda  decisively.  "  I'm 
going  to  be  one  of  the  family,  and  I  want  to  cultivate 
the  family  friends." 

"  You  don't  mean  you  are  going  to  devote  yourself 
to  Probert  and  Bellamy !  " 

Freda  gave  him  an  affectionate  and  proprietary 
kiss.  "Was  the  darling  a  little  jel-jel?"  she  said 
fondly.  "  I  rather  like  that,  Freddy,  because  it  shows 
how  much  you  love  me.  But  you  needn't  be,  in  this 
case,  you  know.  You've  only  got  to  look  in  the  glass 
and  compare  yourself  with  Mr.  Probert  and  Mr.  Bel- 

197 


198  WATERMEADS 

lamy  to  see  who  I  should  be  likely  to  devote  myself  to, 
even  if  I  hadn't  done  it  already." 

Fred  was  inclined  to  like  this  method  of  treatment, 
and,  in  order  to  provoke  an  extension  of  it,  said: 
"  Well,  Probert  is  a  good  deal  better  looking  fellow 
than  I  am,  and  Bellamy's  all  right,  too.  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  prefer  me  to  them,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

Freda  assured  him,  in  the  gratifying  way  known  to 
lovers,  that  no  man  in  the  wide  world  could  equal  him. 
When  she  had  done  this  she  reannounced  her  intention. 
"  You  see,  darling,"  she  said,  with  her  hand  in  his, 
"  I  do  so  want  to  be  a  good  sister  to  Elsie  and  Rose, 
if  they  will  let  me.  I  am  so  happy  in  my  own  love 
affair  that  I  should  like  to  help  them  in  theirs." 

Fred  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  rapture  at  this 
new  proof  of  the  treasure  he  had  secured  for  himself. 
"  I  wish  I  could  say  all  that  I  think  about  you, 
darling,"  he  said  simply.  "  You're  so  much  better 
than  I  am.  I  suppose  you  want  to  have  me  to  your- 
self as  much  as  I  want  you " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  do,  Freddy." 

" and  yet  you  can  think  about  others,  which  I'm 

afraid  is  beyond  me,  though  I  ought  to  do  it  when  it's 
my  own  sisters.  But  as  far  as  Probert  is  concerned, 
I  don't  think  you  need  worry  yourself.  You  wouldn't 
want  to  help  him  on  with  Olivia.  You  said  so  your- 
self." 

"  That's  just  where  you're  as  blind  as  the  rest  of 
them,  dearest.  I  think  I  can  see  a  little  further.  I 
want  to  find  out  if  it  really  is  Olivia  he  comes  here 
for.  I  have  my  own  suspicions  on  that  subject." 

"  Why?    Do  you  think  it  is  one  of  the  girls?  " 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  199 

"  Never  mind  what  I  think.  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
think  this  evening  when  we  have  our  happy  time  to- 
gether. But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing:  Olivia  can't  hold 
a  candle  to  Rose,  in  good  looks  or  anything  else,  and 
if  I  were  a  man  I  wouldn't  look  at  Olivia  if  Rose  was 
anywhere  about." 

Fred  was  inclined  to  regret  the  way  in  which  Freda 
spoke  of  Olivia,  whom  he  had  always  admired,  and  to- 
wards whom  his  feelings  were  hardly  less  affectionate 
than  towards  his  own  sisters.  Neither  did  he  think 
that  Rose,  with  all  her  beauty,  impartially  viewed,  was 
so  obviously  superior  to  Olivia.  Still,  it  was  gratify- 
ing that  Freda  should  not  be  capable  of  taking  a 
wholly  impartial  view  when  it  was  a  question  between 
his  sister  and  another  girl,  and  with  her  love  for  him- 
self putting  once  more  so  completely  to  shame  his  own 
unworthy  little  jealousies,  he  was  not  inclined  to  press 
his  own  view  of  Olivia  as  against  hers. 

"  Well,  darling,"  he  said,  "  you  find  out  what  is 
happening,  and  tell  me  all  about  it  this  evening.  But 
don't  be  too  nice  to  Probert  and  Bellamy,  because  al- 
though I  trust  you — absolutely,  I  couldn't  be  so  sure 
of  either  of  them.  '  You  might  upset  your  own  ideas, 
you  know." 

Only  one  tennis  court  was  kept  going  at  Water- 
meads,  and  it  had  come  to  be  the  custom  among  the 
young  people  who  used  it  so  frequently  during  this  fine 
summer  to  alternate  their  games  with  little  strolls 
around,  whether  in  the  direction  of  strawberry  beds 
and  raspberry  canes  or  along  the  shady  walks  of  the 
overgrown  garden.  Probert  and  Bellamy  had  been 
constantly  of  the  party,  but  there  had  been  others,  too, 


200  WATERMEADS 

young  men  and  girls  from  houses  round,  and  the  pair- 
ings had  given  rise  to  some  conjectures,  and  occa- 
sionally to  little  comedies  of  incipient  attraction  and 
even  of  jealousy.  There  had  not  been  for  some  years 
such  a  succession  of  visitors  at  Watermeads.  It  had 
become  the  stage  for  the  charming  play  of  youth,  and 
never  in  its  best  days  had  the  setting  been  more  fit 
for  the  occasion.  Mrs.  Conway  had  apparently  re- 
signed herself  to  the  extra  expense  and  service  in- 
volved in  providing  tea  for  a  family  almost  daily  re- 
inforced from  outside,  and  made  no  trouble  about  any 
extra  number  up  to  seven.  Beyond  that  it  was  a 
'  party,'  and  that  she  *  would  not  have.'  But  fourteen 
could  sit  comfortably  round  the  table  in  the  hall,  and 
had  done  so  once  or  twice  a  week  throughout  the  sum- 
mer months,  to  say  nothing  of  other  days,  in  which  a 
smaller  number  had  come,  to  play  their  games  seri- 
ously, and  perhaps  with  the  hope  of  increasing  inti- 
macies that  were  already  the  happiest  things  in  their 
lives. 

There  was  the  large  beautiful  house  smiling  across 
its  lawns  and  meadows  in  the  hot  sunshine,  showing 
nothing  of  the  wounds  that  time  was  gradually  deal- 
ing it;  the  spacious  gardens,  in  which  nature  did  so 
much  to  make  up  for  the  enforced  absence  of  human 
care;  the  meal,  sacramental  to  friendship  in  its  suffic- 
ing simplicity,  in  the  great  hall,  which  still  gave  out 
its  aroma  of  tranquil  dignity.  Love-making  in  such 
surroundings  would  provide  memories,  which  no  in- 
crease of  wealth  or  state  could  better.  But  until  the 
arrival  of  Fred  and  Freda  there  had  been  no  direct 
love-making  among  those  who  came  together  there 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  201 

through  the  afternoons  and  evenings  of  that  happy 
summer,  but  only  the  warm  friendships  that  might 
lead  to  love,  as  the  probings  and  testings  yielded 
their  results,  and  whatever  inner  charm  of  mind 
and  spirit  that  lay  behind  the  outer  charm  of  ap- 
pearance and  manner  stole  out  to  find  its  lover  and 
its  mate. 

It  speaks  well  for  Fred's  faith  in  his  beloved  that 
when  he  saw  Freda  and  Probert  detach  themselves 
from  the  group  of  those  watching  the  set  in  which  he 
was  playing,  and  stroll  off  towards  the  shrubbery 
walks,  the  fire  of  his  service  should  not  have  been  dimin- 
ished nor  the  quickness  of  his  retorts  at  the  net  suf- 
fered. He  would  have  liked  to  be  in  Probert's  place 
rather  than  to  partner  Olivia  in  a  game  against  Elsie 
and  Bellamy ;  but  his  time  would  come  in  the  sweet 
garden  dusk  later  on ;  and  it  would  be  very  interesting, 
in  intervals  of  love-making,  to  hear  what  Freda  had 
discovered  about  the  mysterious  influences  that  were 
acting  all  around. 

Edward  Probert,  now  admitted  to  close  intimacy 
with  the  Conway  family,  and  inclined  to  like  Fred  not 
a  little,  as  Fred  liked  him,  had  offered  Freda  frank 
congratulations,  and  was  prepared  to  like  her  too,  and 
to  treat  her  with  whatever  friendly  familiarity  her  en- 
gaged state  might  leave  her  leisure  and  inclination  to 
respond  to.  He  thought  it  rather  nice  of  her  to  in- 
vite him  to  a  short  garden  ramble.  It  was  in  the  way 
of  things  at  Watermeads,  and  showed  her  agreeably 
willing  to  suit  herself  to  it  with  the  rest.  The  more 
she  joined  in  with  them  in  all  the  little  habits  that 
made  them  so  friendly  together,  the  more  she  would 


202  WATERMEADS 

make  herself  part  of  the  charming  family  into  which 
she  was  to  marry,  and,  incidentally,  the  more  she 
would  dilute  the  slight  awkwardness  felt  in  a  group 
of  young  people  when  two  of  them  have  their  minds 
filled  only  with  each  other. 

It  was  the  most  natural  thing,  in  view  of  these  sur- 
roundings, and  the  part  that  Freda  would  come  to 
play  in  them,  that  Edward  should  have  begun  the  con- 
versation with  praise  of  Watermeads. 

"  This  is  a  jolly  place,  isn't  it?  "  he  said.  "  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  enjoyed  coming  to  a  house  more  than 
I  do  to  this;  and  they  make  you  feel  so  at  home." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they're  dears,"  said  Freda,  "  and  of 
course  it's  a  beautiful  place;  but  it's  so  sad  to  see 
everything  going  to  ruin." 

Probert  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  it's  quite  so  bad 
as  that,"  he  said.  "  Anyhow,  it  doesn't  show  up  as 
far  as  we're  concerned.  I'm  not  sure  it  doesn't  make 
it  rather  jollier." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  agree  with  you  there,"  said 
Freda  primly.  "  One  makes  the  best  of  things,  of 
course,  but  I've  been  used  to  seeing  things  so  different. 
All  the  time  I'm  wanting  Watermeads  to  be  like  other 
big  houses.  And  it  could  be,  you  know,  with  some 
money  spent  on  it." 

Probert  cast  a  glance  at  his  companion — rather  a 
doubtful  one.  She  was  pretty  enough,  certainly,  and 
beautifully  dressed — a  girl  that  any  young  man  might 
be  pleased  to  stroll  and  chat  with,  even  if  his  chief  in- 
terest in  girlhood  lay  elsewhere.  But 

"  Were  you  brought  up  in  a  large  country  house, 
Mr.  Probert  ?  "  she  was  asking  him  with  a  smile  invit- 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  203 

ing  to  intimacy,  before  his  doubts  had  had  time  to  re- 
solve themselves. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  was,"  he  said,  inclined  to  wonder  why 
the  question  was  asked. 

"  Do  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said.  "  I  love  hearing 
about  houses;  they're  a  sort  of  passion  of  mine. 
That's  why  it  distresses  me  to  see  a  fine  place  like  this 
not  properly  kept  up." 

Oh,  then  she  was  all  right,  if  that  was  it.  He  gave 
her  a  description  of  his  beautiful  home  in  Norfolk, 
laying  more  stress  upon  the  sporting  amenities  of  its 
surroundings  than  upon  the  features  of  the  house  it- 
self. But  she  brought  him  continually  back  to  the 
house,  with  laughing  emphasis  upon  her  personal 
tastes,  and  got  from  him  a  mass  of  detail  as  to  num- 
ber and  size  of  rooms,  and  the  contents  of  the  chief 
ones,  that  would  have  provided  very  fair  material  for 
a  house-agent's  catalogue.  She  made  such  agreeable 
fun  of  her  questions  that  he  quite  entered  into  her 
spirit.  She  showed  a  particular  interest  in  the  do- 
mestic arrangements  of  the  house,  and  helped  him  to 
count  up  the  number  of  servants,  male  and  female,  em- 
ployed in  it.  When  she  had  extorted  enough  informa- 
tion about  the  interior,  she  allowed  him  to  take  her 
over  the  gardens  and  the  home-farm,  in  imagination. 
They  also  visited  the  stables  in  the  same  spirit,  and 
she  was  anxious  to  know  about  cottages  and  ac- 
commodation for  men  working  on  the  place,  whether 
married  or  single. 

When  he  had  satisfied  her  enquiring  spirit  as  to  his 
boyhood's  home,  she  demanded  the  same  details  as  to 
his  present  one,  and  found  him  quite  willing  to  pro- 


204  WATERMEADS 

vide  such  information  as  she  had  shown  him  that  she 
liked  to  have,  without  so  many  promptings  from  her. 
He  seemed,  indeed,  more  interested  for  the  moment  in 
Lutterbourne  Rectory  than  in  Hayslope  Hall,  and  was 
significantly  willing  to  regard  it,  not  as  a  convenient 
house  for  a  bachelor,  but  as  a  house  that  a  woman 
might  take  an  interest  in. 

Lutterbourne  Rectory  revealed  itself  as  a  large  old- 
fashioned  house  of  red  brick,  well  proportioned  and 
conveniently  arranged  for  family  use.  It  had  a  very 
beautiful  garden,  and  its  acreage  of  glebe  was  such 
that  it  was  possible,  to  an  incumbent  with  the  nec- 
essary means  and  tastes,  to  treat  it  as  a  country 
house  in  little,  with  park,  home-farm,  cottages  and 
everything  complete. 

"  I'm  very  lucky  to  get  such  a  place,"  said  the 
young  Rector.  "  Of  course  I  could  have  taken  a  house 
something  like  it,  and  enjoyed  myself  in  it  without  do- 
ing anything  else;  but  I  shouldn't  have  done  that  yet 
awhile  if  I  hadn't  taken  Orders.  I  should  have  gone 
into  the  army,  or  something." 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  do  that,  rather  than  go  into 
the  church,"  said  Freda.  "  I  should  have  thought  it 
would  have  suited  you  much  better." 

"  Well,  no  it  wouldn't.  You  see  I  like  a  country  life 
and  all  the  things  we've  been  talking  about.  Besides, 
though  I  don't  talk  much  about  the  parson  side  of  the 
question,  it  counts  for  something,  you  know.  I  really 
like  being  a  parson." 

His  good-looking  young  face  had  become  a  shade 
more  serious.  He  would  perhaps  have  liked  to  say 
something  to  this  pretty  sympathetic  girl,  who  was 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  205 

taking  such  an  interest  in  the  details  of  his  life,  past, 
present  and  future,  about  a  side  of  it  that  meant  more 
to  him  than  was  apparent  on  the  surface.  But  Freda 
said,  with  a  laugh :  "  Oh,  well,  it  must  be  rather  nice 
to  be  a  parson  when  it  means  living  in  such  a  charm- 
ing house  as  yours  seems  to  be.  I  suppose  you  won't 
live  there  always,  though." 

"  I  shall  for  a  good  many  years  to  come,  I  hope." 
He  was  a  little  chilled  by  her  refusal  to  accept  his  own 
measure  of  his  profession.  Like  so  many  young  men 
who  take  Orders  with  the  prospect  of  a  pleasant  coun- 
try living  before  them,  and  a  pleasant  country  life, 
he  had  found  himself  involved,  during  his  years  of 
training,  in  more  serious  views  of  his  profession  than 
he  had  allowed  for,  or  than  one  in  his  position  would 
have  been  likely  to  meet  with  a  generation  earlier. 
As  prospective  heir  to  large  estates  and  fortune,  it 
had  seemed  right  to  him  that  he  should  carry  out  his 
original  intention,  and  use  only  the  intervening  years 
in  the  active  exercise  of  his  profession.  It  was  either 
that  or  spending  them  in  pursuits  less  beneficial  to 
mankind.  As  a  country  parson  he  would  be  living 
the  life  that  suited  him,  but  it  would  have  a  wider, 
more  satisfying  basis  than  if  he  lived  it  for  no  end 
but  his  own  pleasure.  He  had  worked  hard  during  the 
five  years  since  his  ordination,  in  a  poor  London  par- 
ish, and  was  entering  upon  the  fortunate  fruits  of  his 
labours  with  a  conscience  clear  of  offence.  Neverthe- 
less, he  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  shy  of  comparisons, 
and  anxious  to  do  the  work  he  had  to  do,  for  which 
the  accidents  of  English  Church  patronage  paid  him 
so  handsomely,  as  well  as  it  could  be  done. 


206  WATERMEADS 

"  There's  no  resident  squire  at  Lutterbourne,  you 
know,"  he  said,  half  in  self-defence.  "  There's  a  lot 
to  be  done  in  a  parish  like  that,  though  there  are  only 
seven  hundred  inhabitants  all  told.  It's  the  parson 
who  has  to  do  most  of  it.  I  might  perhaps  come  to 
think  that  I  ought  to  take  a  parish  where  there  would 
be  more  work  to  do,  but  at  present  I'm  quite  satisfied 
where  I  am." 

"  Oh,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Freda.  "  Until  you 
succeed  to  your  property  you  couldn't  have  a  nicer 
place." 

He  passed  this  over,  with  a  slight  sense  of  distaste. 
Freda  would  have  been  considerably  surprised  if  she 
had  known  that  allowances  were  being  made  for  her 
because  she  was  known  to  be  what  this  well-born  and 
well-mannered  young  man  described  to  himself  as  *  not 
quite.' 

Her  heart  seemed  to  be  in  the  right  place,  though, 
even  if  the  questions  and  allusions  she  permitted  her- 
self were  not  beyond  the  reproach  of  lack  of  taste. 
She  told  him  that  for  herself  a  quiet  life  in  a  country 
rectory  seemed  almost  the  ideal  state.  There  was  so 
much  one  could  do  to  help  others,  and  so  much  of  a 
clergyman's  work  that  a  clergyman's  wife  could  help 
him  in.  She  even  said  that  she  wished  Fred  was  a 
clergyman,  which  might  have  given  something  of  a 
shock  to  this  young  man's  credulity  if  she  had  not 
spoken  about  it  all  so  nicely,  and  entered  so  sym- 
pathetically into  what  he  had  told  her  of  his  daily 
duties.  At  the  end  of  the  interview,  when  their  path 
had  led  them  round  to  the  tennis-lawn  again,  Edward 
Probert  felt  that  this  was  a  charming  well-disposi- 


A  TENNIS   PARTY  207 

tioned  girl,  whom  his  friend  was  fortunate  to  have  se- 
cured for  a  bride.  Her  little  *  snaggeries  ' — this  was 
a  favourite  word  of  his — would  soon  disappear  in  the 
larger  atmosphere  to  which  she  was  being  introduced, 
and  there  would  be  nothing  left  but  her  extremely  at- 
tractive appearance  and  her  loyal  sound  nature.  It 
pleased  him  also  to  think  that  in  the  natural  course 
of  things  she  would  be  a  neighbour  of  his  own  for 
some  years  to  come.  One  could  get  on  with  the  wives 
of  one's  neighbours  if  they  were  of  that  sort,  and  when 

one  had  a  wife  of  one's  own .  Here  his  thoughts 

left  Freda  and  took  other  channels. 

Freda  had  other  strolls  with  other  members  of  the 
party  during  the  afternoon,  and  even  relented  in  her 
firm  decision  and  invited  Fred  to  one. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  find  out  about  Edward?  "  he 
asked  her  with  some  eagerness,  when  they  were  out  of 
earshot  of  the  rest. 

She  hung  fire  for  a  moment,  and  then  said: 

"  My  dear,  he  hasn't  got  an  idea  of  Olivia.  When 
I  mentioned  her  name — very  carefully,  you  may  be 
sure — he  didn't  turn  a  hair.  He's  quite  indifferent  to 
her." 

"  Well,  then,  is  it  Elsie  or  Rose?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it's  anybody,  but  I'm  not  absolutely 
certain  yet.  I'll  find  out  the  next  time  I  talk  to  him." 

"  Oh,  but  darling !  Surely  you  needn't  trot  him  out 
again !  He's  had  his  turn." 

Freda  stopped  in  the  path  to  kiss  him.  "  Jealous 
old  angel !  "  she  said  fondly.  "  I'm  going  to  do  just 
exactly  what  I  please,  and  find  out  all  I  can." 

It  may  have  been  a  disinclination  to  confess  that  she 


208  WATERMEADS 

had  forgotten  all  about  finding  out  anything,  either 
about  Olivia  or  anybody  else,  and  a  desire  to  amend 
the  oversight,  that  prompted  her  to  manoeuvre  for 
another  intimate  conversation  with  Edward  Probert. 
But  he  did  not  respond  to  her  overtures,  though,  sit- 
ting in  a  little  group  among  those  watching  the  play, 
he  was  abundantly  friendly  in  his  manner  towards 
her,  and  anxious  to  include  her  in  the  conversation 
that  was  going  on. 

But  Freda  did  not  particularly  shine  in  general 
conversation.  Her  wit  was  not  very  ready,  and  she 
seemed  always  to  be  thinking  of  something  else.  As 
Edward  ignored  the  hinted  invitation  she  conveyed  to 
him  for  another  walk,  she  took  off  Penelope,  who  had 
shown  throughout  the  day  a  marked  predilection  for 
her  society,  but  not  without  a  backward  look  which 
seemed  to  ask  how  any  young  man  could  see  her  go- 
ing off  like  that  without  springing  up  to  accompany 
her.  Fred  was  playing,  and  the  rest  sat  still,  and 
when  she  had  departed  went  on  with  their  talk  and 
laughter  with  a  slightly  heightened  air  of  comradeship. 
She  was  at  that  moment  at  the  lowest  point  of  her 
influence,  and  would  perhaps  have  done  better  to  have 
kept  her  place.  But  the  chief  reason  why  nobody  had 
offered  to  accompany  her  was  that  there  happened  to 
be  nobody  in  the  little  group  who  had  not  a  personal 
reason  for  staying  in  it,  and  the  general  feeling  with 
regard  to  her  was  apologetic,  and  not  for  the  moment 
critical. 

Penelope  hung  upon  her  arm  with  a  proud  air  of 
possession.  Freda  was  a  wonder  and  a  delight  to  this 
odd  and  unattractive  child.  She  was  the  first  per- 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  209 

son  who  had  ever  treated  her  as  an  equal,  as  one 
whose  ideas  were  as  well  worth  getting  at  as  anybody 
else's,  and  whose  value  was  much  in  excess  of  what  it 
was  conceded  to  be  by  those  around  her.  Freda  had 
taken  some  pains  to  make  herself  attractive  towards 
Elsie  and  Rose.  She  had  taken  none  with  Penelope, 
and  yet  with  the  elder  girls  there  was  still  a  good  deal 
to  be  done,  while  Penelope  accepted  her  without  ques- 
tion and,  it  really  seemed,  adored  her.  This  was  grat- 
ifying, and  inclined  her  towards  the  child,  whom  she 
found  amusing  and  companionable  besides. 

Nevertheless,  Penelope's  first  remark  disconcerted 
her  not  a  little,  as  tending  to  show  that  her  manoeuvres 
to  secure  a  second  tete-a-tete  with  Probert  had  not 
been  so  completely  disguised  as  she  had  thought. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  much  use  trying  to  get  Edward 
to  walk  about  with  you,"  said  Penelope.  "  He's  in 
love  with  Rose." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  "  exclaimed  Freda, 
showing  quick  offence. 

Penelope  was  not  in  the  least  put  out  by  it.  Al- 
though she  had  taken  a  strong  fancy  to  Freda,  and 
was  ready  to  soften  her  asperities  towards  her,  she 
also  intended  to  keep  the  upper  hand.  "  My  dear, 
you  did  try,"  she  said  calmly.  "  You  can't  hide  that 
sort  of  thing  from  me.  I'm  much  too  sharp.  I  sup- 
pose you  wanted  to  find  out  from  him  who  he  is  in 
love  with.  I  found  that  out  long  ago." 

"  Well,"  said  Freda,  somewhat  reassured.  "  I  do 
want  to  find  out  something  about  what  is  going  on — 
because  Elsie  and  Rose  are  going  to  be  my  sisters,  you 
see,  and  naturally  I  take  an  interest.  As  far  as  I'm 


210  WATERMEADS 

concerned  it's  no  more  pleasure  to  me  to  talk  to  Ed- 
ward than  to  anyone  else.  I  would  much  rather  talk 
to  you." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Penelope  calmly.  "  I 
didn't  think  you  wanted  to  talk  to  Edward  because 
you  liked  him.  Of  course  you  don't  like  anybody  but 
Fred  now." 

Freda  was  half  suspicious  of  irony  in  this  speech, 
but  Penelope's  next  one  reassured  her.  "  All  I  meant 
was  that  if  you  want  to  find  out  what  is  happening 
you  would  save  a  lot  of  time  and  trouble  by  asking 
me." 

Freda  laughed.  "  Well,  what  is  happening,  you  de- 
lightful imp?  "  she  asked. 

"  Jack  Kirby  is  in  love  with  Rose.  So  is  Edward. 
So  is  Giles.  And  Rose  can't  make  up  her  mind  which 
she  likes  best." 

"  Who  is  Jack  Kirby?  He  isn't  here,  is  he?  I  know 
all  these  by  name." 

"  He  the  son  of  Lord  Kirby,  who  has  come  to 
live  at  Prittlewell.  I  like  him,  but  father  doesn't." 

Freda  asked  a  lot  of  questions  about  Lord  Kirby, 
and  about  Prittlewell,  which  Penelope  answered  read- 
ily enough.  "  I  wonder  Fred  hasn't  told  you  about 
him,"  she  said.  "  It  is  rather  exciting.  Mother  told 
me  that  Jack  Kirby  would  be  a  lord  when  his  father 
died,  and  if  Rose  marries  him  she  will  be  *  my  lady ' 
like  Lady  Sophia." 

"Did  Mrs.  Conway  tell  you  that?"  asked  Freda, 
in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  not  supposed  to  know  anything 
about  these  things.  I  got  that  out  of  Cooky." 


A  TENNIS  PARTY  211 

"  Does  he  seem  to  like  Rose  very  much — as  Fred 
likes  me,  I  mean?  "  Freda's  face  was  serious,  and  her 
mouth  was  not  at  its  best. 

"  You  mean  is  he  in  love  with  her?  You  needn't 
pretend  that  I  don't  know  anything.  I  told  you  he 
was;  and  so  are  the  other  two." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  Edward  is  supposed  to  be 
in  love  with  Olivia.  They  all  say  so." 

"  That's  because  they  don't  take  proper  notice. 
Olivia  may  like  him.  I  don't  think  she's  in  love  with 
him,  or  I  should  have  found  it  out.  But  I  don't 
care  for  Olivia  much,  so  I  don't  take  much  notice  of 
her." 

"  Well,  7  don't  like  her  much  either.  It's  funny  how 
you  and  I  seem  to  have  the  same  tastes,  Pen  dear." 

"  I  don't  know  that  it's  so  very  funny.  We  are 
rather  like  one  another,  though  of  course  I  shall  never 
be  as  pretty  as  you." 

"  Oh,  darling !  I  think  you'll  be  very  pretty  when 
you  grow  up.  About  Olivia — somehow  I  think  she  is 
designing." 

"  Perhaps  she  is.     I  don't  know." 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  inclined  to  like  Fred?  Of 
course  it  would  be  a  very  good  match  for  her — the 
clergyman's  daughter  to  marry  the  squire's  son." 

Penelope  laughed.  "  Of  course  she  likes  Fred,"  she 
said.  "  But  it's  rather  funny  to  think  of  her  marry- 
ing him." 

Freda  left  this  point.  There  were  immaturities  in 
Penelope's  vision,  in  spite  of  her  precocious  sharpness. 
"  Edward  seems  to  me  to  pay  more  attention  to  Elsie 
than  to  Rose,"  she  said. 


212  WATERMEADS 

"  I  know  he  does.  And  so  does  Giles.  That's  their 
cunning.  They  are  both  in  love  with  Rose." 

The  assured  reiteration  of  her  statement  had  weight 
with  Freda,  as  did  her  implication  of  a  masked  attack. 
"  I  wonder  if  it's  true,"  she  said,  still  with  her  mouth 
rather  disagreeably  set.  "  Of  course  I  should  like 
Rose  to  marry  well.  I'm  not  sure  I  shouldn't  choose 
Giles  for  her  out  of  the  three.  I  like  him  better  than 
Edward." 

"  Why?    You've  hardly  talked  to  him  at  all." 

"  I  don't  know  why.  One  just  feels  these  things.  I 
think  he  would  make  a  better  husband  for  Rose.  But 
of  course  I  haven't  seen  Jack  Kirby  yet." 

"  You'll  see  him  soon.  They  are  coming  down  to 
Prittlewell  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and  he  is  sure  to 
come  over  here  as  soon  as  ever  he  can." 

"  I  wonder  why  Fred  never  mentioned  him  to  me." 

"  Ah,  I  wonder,"  said  Penelope,  with  an  air  of  wis- 
dom which,  however,  indicated  no  opinion  that  she  had 
formed  on  the  subject,  though  it  appeared  to  do  so. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

AN  INTERVIEW 

LORD  and  Lady  Kirby  came  down  to  Prittlewell  on 
Friday  evening,  but  without  Jack,  and  on  Saturday 
morning  Lord  Kirby  rather  surprisingly  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance at  Watermeads,  and  asked  to  see  Sydney 
Conway. 

The  interview  took  place  in  Sydney's  room,  which  he 
seldom  used,  as  he  preferred  to  spend  his  time  in  the 
company  of  whatever  members  of  the  family  might  be 
available,  and  the  upkeep  of  an  extra  sitting-room 
meant  extra  service.  It  was  a  large  well-appointed 
room,  but  suffered  from  the  usual  Watermeads  air  of 
neglect,  and  Lord  Kirby,  who  lived  habitually  in  the 
lap  of  red  morocco  and  shining  mahogany,  looked 
round  it  with  a  critical  air  as  he  took  the  seat  indi- 
cated to  him  in  a  shabby  easy  chair. 

And  if  the  Squire  of  Watermeads'  own  room  bore  a 
strong  contrast  to  the  newly  and  expensively  furnished 
chamber  devoted  to  the  private  pursuits  of  the  Lord 
of  Prittlewell,  still  greater  was  the  contrast  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  two  men.  Lord  Kirby  was  neatly 
tweeded  and  spatted,  and  what  could  be  seen  of  his 
brown  boots  had  all  the  high  mellow  polish  associated 
with  the  best  served  establishments.  Sydney  wore  his 
grey  flannel  suit,  as  usual,  with  a  club  tie  and  a  pair 
of  white  tennis  shoes,  which  had  not  very  recently  been 

213 


214  WATERMEADS 

pipe-clayed.  But  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  in  this 
costume,  which  Lord  Kirby  would  not  have  done. 

"  I've  come  over  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about 
my  boy  and  your  girl,"  said  Lord  Kirby  with  admira- 
ble directness. 

Sydney  looked  down  suddenly.  He  had  expected 
anything  but  this.  There  was  a  question  having  to 
do  with  their  adjoining  properties,  which  he  had  so 
far  only  discussed  with  Lord  Kirby's  agent.  If  he 
had  not  had  it  in  his  mind  that  Lord  Kirby's  visit  was 
to  settle  that  up,  he  might  have  suspected  something 
of  his  purpose,  with  his  mind  so  frequently  running 
on  Jack  Kirby  and  Rose.  But  the  small  shock  was 
none  the  less  unpleasant. 

As  Sydney  did  not  say  anything  in  reply  to  the  an- 
nouncement, Lord  Kirby  proceeded  in  his  confident, 
rather  patronising,  but  not  unpleasant  manner.  "  I 
want  to  see  my  boy  married,"  he  said.  "  He  isn't  very 
old,  but  I  like  early  marriages,  especially  where  there's 
a  good  deal  concerned,  as  there  is  in  his  case.  I  want 
him  to  bring  me  a  nice  girl  as  a  daughter-in-law,  and 
if  he  brings  me  the  right  one  I  don't  fancy  she'll  have 
much  to  complain  of  in  my  treatment  of  her.  I've 
taken  a  very  great  fancy  to  your  little  Rose,  Mr.  Con- 
way,  and  I  assure  you  that  it  has  given  me  great  pleas- 
ure— very  great  pleasure  indeed — to  find  that  my  boy 
has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  her,  too.  Ha!  ha!  Now 
I  don't  think  it's  such  a  bad  thing  to  treat  these  mat- 
ters in  an  old-fashioned  way,  and  for  the  parents  to 
agree  on  them  before  the  young  people  fix  it  up  for 
themselves.  That's  why  I've  come  over  to  have  a  lit- 
tle chat  about  it." 


aiopq  jaq  q^tAi  ajtf  siq 
Suipuads  jo  :padsoad  aq^  PUB  'maw  siq  uo  SuiSuwq  \jiiS 
ajq-Bjopt?  siq^  3A«q  o^  uaui  jo  ^saiddsq  aq^  paapui  SBM. 
aq  ^wq^  ^pj  paa^  *}q^u  jo  Suipao  pa^u^ds  oq^  aapun 

zsi 


981 

aq  pfnoqs  j  A*qAi  MOU5[  }4uop  j  'aui  sasBa[d  am  03. 
jpsaaq  puarauioo  o^  8fqno.ii  saspsi  aqs  A*BAV  aqi  ^Bq^  „ 
'A*[snojapuod  A"BAUO;}  'saj\[  pres  u'ssajuoo  ^simi  j  „ 


:}UBain  j  puB  'op  p4aqs  pi«s  j    '^t  ut 
'qSnoua  X{5[Dmb  Suiqi  jo  ^jos  ^«q^  jp  ujuaj  |{taqs 
•uSis  B   S£VMYB   si  qoiqM  'Smq^  auo  JQJ   'aui«|j 
SB  aui  ssajppB  o^  uoi^isodsip  «   sAioqs  aqs  * 


-oas  sj  aqs  ^Bqi  ^BS  no^C  op  ^q^i  "ssajp  aaq  ao  'aouB 
-jBaddB  aaq  q^tAi  ^[nBj  £wa  pug  ^[qtssod  ppoo  ^Cpoq 
-ou  puB  'pooS  ^jjBjnoi^jBd  SB  ain  a^u^s  saauuBui  aajj  „ 
•piBS  aqs  «'aaq  jo  ^Bq^  J£BS  no^C  ^q^i  JA.OUT[  ^4uop  j  „ 

•ssaoons  ^noq^iAi  ^nq  '^i  AVOJ 

-jBA^s  o^  ^JOj^a  ^CjBuiuiipjd  B  apBUi  'aaq^Bj  'ao  tqoaads 
Suisiadins  stpuaijj  jaq  pa^saSip  ^BAIU 

•ajojaq  SB  'uapJBS  aq^  m 

-raaqi  ^sof  pBq  Bpaaj  puB  pajj;  'uiaq^  q^m  aaa 
aqi  puB  'aoBJja^  aq^  uo  X!aup^§  q^iAi  Sui^ouis  SBM  aui 
'^SB{  aqi  SB  {[t^s  puB  UIJBAV  SB  Suiaq 
'saj\[  q^iAi  auo[B  SBAI  auiB^j  Biqdog 
^Bjn^BaSuoo  j  -op  |{4aqs  5[uiq^  j  ^nq  'sapisaq 
xutui  B  s4aqs  ^Bq;  uoiotdsns  Suoa^s  B  aAj  puB  'Suiq^ 
p  ^jos  ^Bqi  |[B  puB  'a^Bj  puooas  puB  ssBp-ajppiui  puB 
UBqanqns  si  \jiiS  aq^  asanoo  jo  'auBp  jBap  Xui  ' 


3HS 
AIX    H3XJVHO 


AN  INTERVIEW  215 

* 

He  had  really  come  over  because  he  was  so  excited 
at  the  idea  of  Jack  proposing  to  Rose,  which  Jack 
under  pressure  had  admitted  to  him  was  in  his  mind, 
that  he  wanted  to  talk  about  it.  For  there  was  noth- 
ing for  him  to  arrange  with  Rose's  father.  He  knew 
that  she  would  probably  come  penniless,  and  if  not  he 
didn't  care ;  and  as  for  any  difficulty  about  the  match 
from  the  Conway  side,  it  had  never  entered  his  head 
that  they  would  accept  it  with  anything  but  hymns 
and  paeans  of  joy. 

But  Sydney's  face  did  not  exactly  express  jubila- 
tion, as  he  came  to  the  end  of  his  introductory  re- 
marks, and  Lord  Kirby  was  somewhat  surprised  by 
its  expression,  and  inclined  to  wonder  whether  the 
golden  offer  he  was  so  generously  making  had  been 
quite  understood  by  this  odd  unsuccessful  man,  for 
whom  he  had  a  feeling  between  contempt  and  pity. 

He  would  have  been  still  more  surprised  if  he  had 
had  any  idea  of  the  storm  of  anger  and  resentment 
that  had  been  aroused  by  his  speech,  and  was  raging 
so  hotly  in  Sydney's  mind  that  he  was  quite  incapa- 
ble for  the  moment  of  making  any  reply  to  it  what- 
ever. Upon  the  suggested  marriage  itself  he  had  long 
since  made  up  his  mind.  Much  as  he  personally  dis- 
liked young  Jack,  he  must  not  allow  his  dislike  to  ap- 
pear, if  Rose  accepted  him.  He  could  bring  forward 
no  adequate  reason  for  refusing  parental  consent,  and 
to  show  distaste  for  Rose's  future  husband  would  only 
have  the  effect  of  parting  him  still  further  from  Rose. 
But  he  had  clung,  perhaps  more  than  he  knew,  to  the 
hope  that  Rose  would  not  in  the  long  run  accept  Jack 
Kirby,  and  here  he  was  being  asked  to  welcome  and 


216  WATERMEADS 

encourage  the  marriage  even  before  Rose  had  been  ap- 
proached. That  was  the  chief  reason  for  his  painful 
disturbance  of  mind. 

But  there  were  others.  Nobody  could  have  been  less 
inclined  than  he  to  found  himself  upon  his  birth.  If 
the  social  position  that  was  his  by  right  of  it  had  not 
been  complicated  by  the  rapid  decay  of  his  fortunes, 
he  would  never  have  given  it  a  thought.  But  here  was 
this  new  rich  man,  whose  immediate  forbears  would 
scarcely  have  spoken  to  his  without  touching  their 
hats,  treating  him  as  a  person  of  such  small  account 
that  he  could  come  and  talk  about  a  marriage  between 
their  respective  families  as  if  he  were  conferring  an 
honour.  And  worse  still,  he  had  not  even  shown  him- 
self alive  to  Rose's  value,  although  he  had  spoken  in 
praise  of  her.  With  whatever  feelings  in  his  pride  of 
wealth  he  might  choose  to  regard  a  man  of  much 
higher  lineage  than  his  own  who  had  no  wealth  to 
back  it,  it  was  intolerable  that  he  should  look  upon 
that  man's  daughter,  who  was  so  fair  and  sweet,  as 
reduced  in  price.  It  was  this  consideration  that  stung 
Rose's  father  to  speech. 

His  voice  trembled  a  little  as  he  said :  "  There's  no- 
body in  the  world  who  might  not  think  himself  for- 
tunate to  marry  my  girl.  You  seem  to  think  you  can 
buy  her." 

He  raised  a  face  that  startled  Lord  Kirby  almost 
more  than  his  speech.  That  well-dispositioned  noble- 
man was  struck  with  instant  compunction.  "  Oh,  my 
dear  Mr.  Conway,"  he  protested.  "  What  on  earth 
have  I  said  that  makes  you  take  it  like  that?  I  know 
well  enough  what  your  little  girl  is  worth.  Otherwise 


AN  INTERVIEW  217 

I  shouldn't  be  so  dead  keen  for  Jack  to  marry  her  as 
I  am.  She's  the  girl  I  want  for  him,  above  any  other. 
I've  proved  that,  I  think,  by  coming  to  you.  In  a 
sort  of  way,  you  know,  though  not  of  course  in  the 
same  way,  there's  nobody  Jack  couldn't  marry.  But 
I  put  all  that  aside." 

"  What  do  you  put  aside  ?  "  Sydney's  voice  was 
quite  under  control  now.  He  was  settling  down  to  a 
cold  anger,  for  which  he  would  find  food  in  making 
his  antagonist  declare  his  mind  in  all  its  native  ugli- 
ness. 

Lord  Kirby  did  not  blink  the  question.  He  was  well 
used  to  controversy  in  which  either  side  tried  to  dom- 
inate the  other,  and  the  weapon  he  habitually  used 
was  a  frank  statement  of  his  own  attitude,  upon  which 
his  opponent  was  invited  to  concentrate  himself. 

"  What  I  put  aside,"  he  said  dogmatically,  but  not 
disagreeably, — "  and  I  do  it  because  I  don't  care  a 
hang  about  it  where  the  girl  is  so  charming,  and  so 
everything  that  she  ought  to  be  as  yours — is  that  if 
my  son  marries  her  nobody  could  say  that  it  is  what's 
called  a  good  match  for  him." 

"  Why  not ;  if  my  daughter  is  what  you  say  she  is  ?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough  why,  Mr.  Conway." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know  why.  You're  a  rich  man,  and 
you've — you've — you've  earned  a  peerage ' 

"  Why  not  say  *  bought  a  peerage,'  if  that's  what 
you  mean?  I  didn't  buy  it,  but  we'll  let  that  pass. 
Well,  with  things  as  they  are  in  the  world  today,  the 
son  who  will  inherit  my  riches  and  my  peerage  might 
be  expected  to  marry  either  wealth  or  rank,  or  both. 
If  he  marries  your  daughter,  everybody  who  knows 


218  WATERMEADS 

her,  and  whose  opinion  is  worth  having,  will  say  he's 
married  a  treasure.  But  everybody  who  doesn't  know 
her,  and  looks  only  at  the  outside,  will  say  that  he 
might  have  done  better  for  himself.  7  don't  say  so, 
mind  you,  and  I  don't  think  so.  I've  proved  it  by 
coming  over  here  and  asking  you  for  your  daughter 
for  a  wife  for  my  son.  I've  told  you  that  the  idea 
of  such  a  marriage  gives  me  great  pleasure,  and  I 
mean  it." 

"  You  didn't  say  a  word,"  said  Sydney,  still  hot 
with  resentment,  "  that  showed  you  had  any  idea  in 
your  head  but  that  I  should  jump  at  the  chance." 

Lord  Kirby  considered  this,  and  laughed  rather 
awkwardly.  "  I  suppose  you've  got  me  there,"  he  be- 
gan, but  Sydney  interrupted  whatever  he  may  have 
been  going  to  say  further. 

"  You  think  that  what  you  have  to  offer  must  have 
such  weight  with  me — you  a  rich  man  and  me  a  poor 
one — that  you  needn't  consider  the  chief  question  at 
all.  I  can  assure  you,  anyhow,  and  you  may  believe 
it  or  not,  that  your  wealth  and  your  title  count  for 
absolutely  nothing  with  me,  beside  the  question  of 
what  your  son  is  in  himself.  And  yet  you've  left  that 
out  of  account  altogether." 

This  was  quite  a  new  light  to  Lord  Kirby.  "  Do 
you  object  to  my  son  personally?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  detest  him,"  Sydney  rapped  out. 

Lord  Kirby  stared,  out  of  protruding  eyes  filled 
with  amazement,  and  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  said  that — to  you,"  Sydney  went 
on,  "  if  you  hadn't  worked  me  up  to  it.  As  it's  said, 
we  can't  leave  it  at  that.  But  before  we  come  back  to 


AN  INTERVIEW  219 

it  I've  got  something  else  to  say.  I'm  a  poor  man. 
For  anybody  in  my  position  I'm  a  very  poor  man.  If 
that's  all  you  had  to  consider  you  might  have  a  right, 
or  think  you  had,  to  come  to  me  in  the  way  you  have. 
But  it  isn't  all.  I  think  from  what  I  know  of  the 
world — and  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  it — that  you 
quite  exaggerate  your  value.  No  doubt  there  are  any 
amount  of  families  as  good  or  better  than  mine  who 
would  welcome  a  marriage  for  a  daughter  with  your 
son,  because  of  what  he  could  bring.  But  I'm  quite  sure 
that  there  are  a  great  many  who  wouldn't.  The 
paint's  too  new.  For  myself,  I  don't  believe  I've  ever 
been  inclined  to  put  too  high  a  value  on  these  things, 
and  if  everything  was  right  otherwise  I  shouldn't 
think  twice  about  my  being  what  I  am  and  what  my 
family  has  been  for  some  generations.  But  I  say  that 
with  you  it  ought  to  count,  and  when  you  come  and 
tell  me  that  for  your  son  to  marry  my  daughter  would 
be  considered  a  misalliance  for  him,  I  say  that  you've 
got  your  values  wrong  altogether." 

Lord  Kirby  paid  small  attention  to  this.  He 
thought  he  knew  his  values  at  least  as  well  as  this  pen- 
niless squire.  Money  talked,  all  the  world  over,  and 
allied  with  a  title,  however  new,  it  talked  loudly. 
Birth,  unless  it  was  something  quite  exceptional,  only 
whispered.  Still,  if  he  had  trod  on  the  corns  of  a 
proud  poor  man,  it  had  been  done  inadvertently.  "  I 
seem  to  have  got  wrong  with  you  altogether,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  you  come  of  a  good  old  family,  and  I'm 
from  one  that  didn't  amount  to  anything  before  I 
made  myself  what  I  am.  It  does  count  with  me.  If 
your  girl  had  come  out  of  a  country  parsonage  I  don't 


220  WATERMEADS 

think  I  should  have  welcomed  the  idea  as  I  do,  though 
I  shouldn't  have  made  trouble  about  it.  Yes;  it  does 
count  with  me.  But  being  what  I  am  you'll  hardly 
have  expected  me  to  come  to  you  hat  in  hand.  Or 
perhaps  you  did.  Well,  I  apologise  for  anything  you 
object  to.  I  don't  often  apologise  to  anybody,  and 
when  I  do  I  mean  it.  Now  tell  me  why  you  *  detest ' 
my  son,  as  you  say  you  do." 

It  is  always  difficult  in  controversy  to  keep  up  the 
feeling  that  has  instigated  an  exaggerated  statement, 
at  least  to  one  of  any  impartiality  of  mind.  Sydney's 
resentment  had  already  begun  to  lessen  when  he  an- 
swered :  "  It's  more  than  I  meant  to  say.  I  don't  like 
the  young  man  personally,  but  if  he  hadn't  come  here 
always  with  the  obvious  intention  of  amusing  himself 
with  my  daughter,  I  shouldn't  have  felt  anything 
much  against  him.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  about 
him,  either  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Well,  he  came  here  for  your  daughter.  That 
seems  to  have  put  you  against  him,  though  why  it 
should  I  don't  know.  You  may  put  as  much  value  as 
you  please  on  your  family,  or  your  ancestors,  or  how- 
ever you  like  to  express  it,  and  as  little  as  you  please 
on  mine.  But  it  seems  to  me  simply  ridiculous,  as 
things  go  nowadays,  to  make  that  a  cause  of  offence. 
I  tell  you  this,  that  the  bulk  of  the  people  I  mix  with 
— I'm  not  boasting  about  it,  but  it  is  so — and  per- 
haps still  more  the  people  Jack  mixes  with,  are  at  least 
as  high  up  in  the  world  as  you  are,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing  isn't  bothered  about  at  all." 

Sydney  had  an  unholy  gleam  of  joy  at  the  thought 
that  he  had  touched  him.  "  It  isn't  bothered  about  bv 


AN  INTERVIEW  221 

me,"  he  said.  "  And  I  know  quite  well  that  you  are 
worth  a  good  deal  more  than  I  am  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  I  grant  you  every  bit  of  that.  But  you're 
not  so  much  higher  that  when  you  or  one  of  your  fam- 
ily want  intimacy  with  mine  you're  conferring  a  fa- 
vour on  us." 

"  Well,  I  know  that,  and  I've  never  thought  it." 

"  You've  never  thought  anything  else.  As  for  your 
son,  naturally  if  he  has  taken  a  fancy  to  my  daughter, 
he  wants  to  recommend  himself  to  the  rest  of  her 
family,  as  far  as  it's  worth  his  while.  With  me  per- 
sonally he  thinks  it  quite  enough  that  he  is  what  your 
money  has  made  him.  I  should  think  he'd  have  had  a 
fit,  if  he  had  been  told  at  any  time  that  I  wasn't  de- 
lighted at  seeing  him  paying  attention  to  my 
daughter." 

"  Oh,  then  it's  because  he  hasn't  paid  attention  to 
you  personally  that  you're  annoyed  with  him." 

"  It  isn't  anything  of  the  sort.  Or  rather  it's  a  lit- 
tle bit  of  it,  just  as  showing  that  he  doesn't  know 
how  to  behave  as  a  gentleman.  He  doesn't.  He's 
noisy  and  self-satisfied,  and  he  bases  himself  on 
money  and  on  what  he  can  get  with  it.  That's  why 
I  dislike  him;  and  what  he  is  to  me  he  is  to  every- 
body— only  with  some  people  he  finds  it  worth  while 
to  disguise  it." 

Lord  Kirby  allowed  himself  a  short  period  of  re- 
flection, sitting  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  and  a 
slight  frown  on  his  brow.  Was  it  worth  his  while  to 
go  on  with  it,  or  should  he  show  offence  by  taking 
his  leave?  One  of  the  facts  that  decided  him  to  stay 
was  that  he  felt  no  particular  offence.  He  was  not 


222  WATERMEADS 

thin-skinned,  and  had  had  occasion,  in  the  past,  to 
shut  his  eyes  to  such  views  of  himself  as  had  been  ex- 
pressed by  Sydney.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  do 
so  now,  especially  as,  coming  from  such  a  quarter,  it 
was  of  little  account.  Even  in  Meadshire  Lord  Kirby 
was  of  more  social  importance  than  Sydney  Conway, 
and  elsewhere  there  was  no  comparison  whatever. 
The  point  to  decide  was,  whether  he  still  wanted  this 
marriage  to  take  place;  and  when  he  put  that  ques- 
tion to  himself,  he  found  that  he  did.  The  poor  man, 
hurt  and  angry  at  being  looked  down  upon  by  the 
rich  man,  made  an  appeal  to  his  not  unkindly  nature. 
He  could  forgive  his  bitterness  and  put  it  aside.  And 
this  particular  poor  man  had  made  some  impression 
upon  that  side  of  him  that  was  always  on  the  alert 
for  social  values.  Sydney's  bitterness  may  have 
lacked  something  in  dignity  by  being  expressed  at  all; 
but  dignity  had  not  been  altogether  absent  from  him. 
A  Conway  of  Watermeads  was  probably  more  apart 
from  the  common  herd  of  men  in  Lord  Kirby's  eyes 
than  in  the  eyes  of  the  Conways  themselves,  and,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  poverty  that  was  beyond  cus- 
tomary experience  in  such  families,  Lord  Kirby  would 
never  have  treated  his  neighbour  as  of  small  account. 
That  neighbour's  value  had  been  in  a  large  measure 
restored  in  his  mind  by  what  had  been  said;  and  the 
great  house  in  which  he  was  sitting,  finer  than  the  one 
he  had  bought  himself,  and  all  that  went  with  it,  re- 
minded him  that,  before  the  poverty  had  obtruded  it- 
self upon  his  notice,  Watermeads  and  its  occupants 
had  bulked  as  of  some  importance  in  his  eyes.  As 
for  the  disagreeable  and  quite  exaggerated  criticism 


AN  INTERVIEW  223 

of  Jack,  there  was  obviously  nothing  in  that  beyond 
a  sense  of  pique.  Jack  had  a  more  careless  and  fa- 
miliar way  with  people  than  he  had  himself.  That 
was  because  Jack  had,  in  his  father's  eyes,  been  born 
to  the  wealth  and  station  that  he  himself  had  only 
earned,  and  was  '  as  good  as  anybody.'  He  found 
Jack's  manner  wholly  admirable,  though  in  this  case 
he  might  have  made  a  careless  young  man's  mistake 
in  not  paying  enough  attention  to  the  vanities  of  a 
man  with  a  standing  grievance.  After  all,  the  im- 
portant matter  was  whether  Sydney  was  prepared  to 
carry  his  resentment  so  far  as  to  put  obstacles  in 
the  way  of  the  marriage.  Lord  Kirby  believed  that 
he  would  do  so  no  more  than  he  had  believed  it  when 
he  had  come  into  the  house.  And  if  he  didn't,  then 
all  the  fuss  he  had  made  was  about  nothing. 

Some  such  considerations  as  these  passed  very 
rapidly  through  his  mind, — so  rapidly  that  he  raised 
his  eyes  and  spoke  before  the  awkwardness  of  a  pause 
became  apparent. 

"  I  think  you  are  quite  wrong  about  my  son,"  he 
said.  "  There  isn't  much  shyness  about  him — that  I'll 
admit;  but  his  manners  are  just  the  same  as  those  of 
other  young  men  of  the  sort  he's  been  brought  up 
among,  and  he  has  a  good  heart  into  the  bargain, 
which  a  lot  of  young  men  who  are  all  right  on  the 
surface  haven't.  I  know  him  a  good  deal  better  than 
you  possibly  can,  and  I  say  that  the  girl  who  marries 
him  would  get  a  prize,  even  if  he  brought  her  nothing 
but  himself.  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  to  understand 
you  as  carrying  your  objections  to  him  so  far  as  to 
refuse  your  daughter  to  him.  If  so  I  don't  quite 


224  WATERMEADS 

see  why  you  should  have  allowed  him  to  come 
over  here  as  much  as  he  has,  or  let  your  daughter  come 
to  us." 

It  was  now  Sydney's  difficult  part  to  reduce  the 
force  of  his  own  objections,  and  he  felt  that  the  price 
to  be  paid  for  his  outbreak  was  a  high  one.  It  was 
in  a  tone  almost  approaching  sulkiness  that  he  said: 
"  I've  already  told  you  what  my  own  opinion  of  him 
is.  I  have  seen  him  coming  here  and  paying  his  at- 
tentions to  Rose  with  the  utmost  distaste.  I've  said 
nothing  to  her,  nor  to  anybody  else,  against  him,  in 
the  first  place  because  a  man  who  tries  to  impose  his 
own  views  upon  his  children  in  such  matters  as  these 
is  a  fool  for  his  pains,  and  in  the  second  because  I 
have  hoped  all  along  that  if  he  asked  her  to  marry 
him  she  would  refuse  him.  I  hope  so  still,  but  I  shall 
do  nothing  to  influence  her,  and  if  she  accepts  him  I 
shall  make  the  best  of  it." 

Lord  Kirby  began  to  harbour  a  suspicion  that  his 
host  was  actually  prepared  to  throw  away  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  brilliant  match  for  his  daughter  for 
the  sake  of  satisfying  a  foolish  prejudice  of  his  own. 

"  Then,  after  all,  you  are  not  going  to  object  to 
a  marriage  between  the  young  people,  if  they  can  fix 
it  up  together." 

The  slight  note  of  contempt,  or  what  Sydney  took 
to  be  such,  was  the  pill  he  had  to  swallow.  He  swal- 
lowed it  with  the  best  grace  he  could.  "  I  can't  say 
that  what  I  see  objectionable  in  your  son  is  enough 
to  make  me  refuse,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Sometimes  I've 
wished  it  was,  and  sometimes  it  very  nearly  has  been. 
No,  I'm  not  going  to  object,  but  I'm  going  to  do  noth- 


AN  INTERVIEW  225 

ing  whatever  to  help  it  on.  Rose  must  decide  for  her- 
self." 

Lord  Kirby  had  got  all  that  he  could  expect  to  get, 
though  for  all  the  satisfaction  he  had  derived  from  the 
interview  he  had  much  better  not  have  come.  "  Oh, 
well,"  he  said,  preparing  to  hoist  himself  out  of  his 
chair  and  take  his  leave,  "  I'm  sorry  that  the  boy 
should  have  offended  you.  I  believe  that  when  you 
know  him  better,  as  I  hope  you  will,  you'll  come  to 
like  him.  He's  likable  enough.  As  you're  not  pre- 
pared to  welcome  the  idea  of  a  marriage,  I  suppose  it's 
not  much  good  discussing  the  business  side  of  the  ar- 
rangement. We  can  do  that  later,  if  the  little  girl 
accepts  him.  You'll  find  me  as  anxious  as  you  that 
everything  shall  be  done  for  her  benefit  that  can  be 
thought  of,  and,  if  the  time  comes  for  us  to  have 
another  talk,  I  shan't  be  thinking  of  what  has  passed 
between  us  in  this  one.  Goodbye,  Mr.  Conway." 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  direct  look  that  con- 
tained neither  offence  nor  cordiality.  If  Sydney  could 
have  met  it  in  the  same  way,  they  would  have  parted 
with  mutual  respect  as  worthy  antagonists,  neither  of 
whom  had  gained  any  advantage  over  the  other.  But 
the  soft  strain  in  Sydney's  nature  was  already  work- 
ing. He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  said  with  a  wry  smile : 
"  Well,  I've  said  things  a  good  deal  stronger  to  you 
than  I  ever  had  any  intention  of  saying  to  anybody. 
But  I've  no  quarrel  with  you.  As  far  as  you're  con- 
cerned it's  quite  possible  to  look  upon  your  coming 
over  here  in  the  way  you  have  as  a  compliment." 

This  was  on  the  face  of  it  such  a  contradiction  of 
everything  that  had  gone  before  that  Lord  Kirby  may 


226  WATERMEADS 

be  pardoned  for  thinking  it  an  entire  capitulation. 
Under  that  impression  he  behaved  handsomely  in  re- 
plying: "Oh,  well,  hard  words  break  no  bones,  and  I 
shan't  think  twice  of  anything  you've  said  that  may 
have  annoyed  me  at  the  time.  Besides,  some  of  it  may 
have  wanted  saying.  People  like  me,  who  have  made 
their  own  way,  are  a  little  apt  to  ride  roughshod,  you 
know,  Mr.  Conway.  Anyhow,  you  may  take  it  for 
granted  now  that  if  we  can  bring  about  this  marriage 
it  will  be  gratifying  to  me  in  every  way — in  every  pos- 
sible way.  There  are  advantages  on  both  sides,  you 
know.  I  hope,  when  you  have  thought  it  all  over, 
you'll  be  as  pleased  as  I  am  with  the  idea." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  be  that,"  said  Sydney 
quietly.  "  What  I  said  just  now  I  said  with  regard 
to  you  only.  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  my  daughter 
accepts  your  son." 

This  last  phrase  stuck  unpleasantly  in  Lord  Kirby's 
mind  as  he  thought  over  the  interview  on  his  home- 
ward way.  It  carried  more  conviction  with  it  than 
anything  that  had  gone  before,  and  it  cut  a  good  deal 
of  ground  that  had  seemed  absolutely  safe  and  sure 
from  under  his  feet.  It  made  it  possible  for  him  to 
regard  Jack,  almost  for  the  first  time,  apart  from  the 
accident  of  his  parentage.  In  the  light  of  that  acci- 
dent, he  was  so  eminently  eligible  that  almost  all 
doubts  of  his  acceptance  by  whomsoever  he  proposed 
to  had  been  omitted  from  his  father's  calculations. 
Certainly  none  had  ever  entered  his  head  with  regard 
to  Rose,  upon  whom  the  deep  satisfaction  of  her  pa- 
rents at  the  prospect  of  such  a  match  for  her,  must 
react,  even  if  she  had  no  more  than  the  mere  liking 


AN  INTERVIEW  227 

for  Jack  which  was  all  that  she  had  ever  shown.  But 
if  considerations  that  would  appeal  strongly  to  al- 
most every  man  in  Sydney  Conway's  position  really 
did  have  no  weight  with  him,  and  he  had  set  himself 
against  the  marriage  in  spite  of  them,  then  Jack 
would  have  his  own  way  to  make,  just  as  if  he  were 
any  ordinary  young  man,  with  nothing  to  recommend 
him  but  his  own  personality.  Viewed  in  that  light,  he 
was  by  no  means  so  certain  of  success  as  his  father 
had  anticipated.  Lord  Kirby  had  a  tender  regard  for 
little  Rose,  and  it  did  not  fit  in  with  his  ideas  of  her 
that  she  should  be  affected  towards  marrying  Jack  by 
what  he  could  bring  her.  He  had  only  thought  of  her 
as  indirectly  disposed  towards  him  by  those  consid- 
erations under  the  joyous  approval  of  her  parents. 
But  if  a  cold  dislike  were  to  take  the  place  of  that 
approval,  the  influences  surrounding  her  would  be  all 
the  other  way,  and  would  be  actually  rather  strong. 

By  the  time  he  reached  home,  Lord  Kirby  was  in- 
clined to  think  that  Sydney's  opposition,  even  if  it 
should  remain  unexpressed,  was  of  considerably  more 
importance  than  it  had  seemed  to  be.  But  when  he 
came  to  talk  it  all  over  with  his  wife  he  was  somewhat 
reassured. 

"  You  may  believe  that  he  doesn't  really  want  it," 
she  said.  "  /  don't  believe  it  for  a  moment.  But  sup- 
posing it  is  so !  What  can  he  do  ?  He'll  have  every- 
body else  against  him.  What  you  ought  to  have  done 
was  not  to  talk  to  him  at  all,  but  to  go  to  the  Old 
Wcarrior.  You'd  had  a  very  different  reception  from 
her." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

BELLAMY 

IT  was  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  Sydney  Conway's 
nature  that  he  should  keep  to  himself  anything  that 
was  troubling  him.  The  natural  outlet  of  disturbance 
of  mind  was  denied  him.  By  long  use  he  had  ac- 
climatised himself  to  the  unsympathetic  and  sometimes 
actually  hostile  atmosphere  that  surrounded  his  wife. 
He  had  found  a  way  of  living  with  her  that  reduced 
friction  to  a  minimum;  but  as  it  involved  a  treatment 
of  her  that  was  never  quite  serious,  its  more  or  less 
satisfactory  results  would  have  been  destroyed  if  he 
had  gone  to  her  with  a  tale  of  distress.  Also,  she 
would  have  been  quite  certain  to  bathe  his  wounds 
in  acid  instead  of  ointment,  and  it  was  years  since 
he  had  taken  the  risk  of  baring  any  of  them  to 
her  inspection.  She  was,  in  fact,  herself  the  cause  of 
all  the  worst  of  them.  But  for  the  love  he  bore  to 
his  children,  and  the  pleasure  he  took  in  their  com- 
panionship, he  would  hardly  have  been  able  to  support 
the  burden  of  her  constant  proximity.  If  he  had  been 
a  worse  man  he  would  have  hated  her.  To  love  such 
a  woman  was  out  of  the  question.  None  of  her  own 
children  were  able  to  accomplish  that  feat,  not  even 
her  youngest,  upon  whom  she  conferred  whatever  af- 
fection stirred  in  her  absurd  and  self-bound  nature. 
That  was  perhaps  Penelope's  fault,  but  with  the  others 

228 


BELLAMY  229 

the  utmost  that  could  be  expected  was  some  remnant 
of  the  feeling  that  they  had  had  for  her  as  little  chil- 
dren. As  she  made  no  demands  upon  their  love,  but 
only  upon  their  patience,  which  their  equable  natures 
enabled  them  to  satisfy,  she  affected  the  family  hap- 
piness less  than  she  might  have  done.  But  in  all  es- 
sentials she  had  shut  herself  off  completely  from  her 
husband  and  her  children. 

For  a  confidante  Sydney  was  now  accustomed  to  go 
either  to  Elsie  or  to  Rose,  or  to  both  of  them  together. 
The  growing  up  of  his  daughters  had  brought  him  a 
great  increase  in  comfort  of  mind.  He  had  loved  them 
dearly  as  children,  and  made  close  friends  of  them,  but 
it  had  been  a  happy  revelation  to  him  to  find  in  them 
support  as  well  as  consolation.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  whose  essential  virility  goes  along  with  a  strong 
feminine  strain.  It  was  natural  to  him  to  lean  on 
others,  and  he  had  learned  to  lean  upon  his  daughters, 
and  especially  upon  Elsie,  whose  mind  was  more  ro- 
bust and  direct  than  is  common  with  girls  of  her  age. 
In  material  troubles  he  found  satisfaction  in  the  sym- 
pathy and  friendship  of  the  Vicar,  who,  with  even  less 
business  capacity  than  he  had  himself,  was  yet  ca- 
pable of  advising  him,  or  at  least  of  helping  him  to 
make  decisions  for  himself.  It  was  perhaps  curious 
that  these  three  should  have  been  his  chief  refuge 
against  his  own  indecision  and  comparative  weakness 
of  character,  for  Fred  and  he  were  extraordinarily 
good  friends,  and  he  might  have  been  expected  to  rely 
more  upon  his  son  as  he  grew  older,  and  began  to 
show  a  strain  of  efficiency,  which,  although  not  re- 
markable in  itself,  was  something  in  excess  of  what 


230  WATERMEADS 

might  have  been  expected  of  him.  But  unless  the  char- 
acter of  a  son  is  markedly  stronger  than  that  of  a 
father,  it  seldom  happens  that  the  father  is  prepared 
to  relinquish  the  reins  to  the  son,  and  a  reliance  upon 
Fred  would  have  meant  something  like  that  in  Syd- 
ney's case. 

In  his  disturbance  of  mind  about  Rose,  Sydney  had 
often  thought  of  taking  Elsie  into  his  confidence.  In- 
deed, it  had  been  hard  work  sometimes  to  refrain  from 
possibly  embittered  comment  to  her  upon  the  unwel- 
come attentions  of  Jack  Kirby.  But  he  had  affected 
blindness  to  what  was  going  on,  partly  because  he  was 
not  sure  that  he  would  have  Elsie's  sympathy  in  his 
intense  dislike  to  it,  partly  because  Elsie  and  Rose 
were  so  much  one  in  all  things  that  to  say  anything 
to  Elsie  would  be  much  the  same  as  saying  it  to  Rose. 
He  did  not  know  that  in  this  matter  the  girls  were  not 
one  but  two.  If  he  had  known  it,  he  might  have  drawn 
some  comfort  from  the  fact. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  who,  he  had  reason 
to  believe,  shared  his  dislike  for  Jack  Kirby.  This 
was  Bellamy,  and  when  Lord  Kirby  had  left  him  to 
reflections  that  loudly  cried  for  utterance  to  another 
ear,  he  formed  the  characteristically  sudden  decision 
to  tell  Bellamy  all  about  it. 

Bellamy  was  painting  a  picture  at  Sandford  Hole. 
He  spent  his  mornings  over  it,  and  was  always  to  be 
found  there  from  an  early  hour,  when  weather  condi- 
tions were  suitable.  Sydney  went  to  find  him  immedi- 
ately after  breakfast  on  the  morning  following  Lord 
Kirby's  visit. 

There  were  a  few  words  about  the  picture,  which 


BELLAMY  231 

was  nearing  completion.  The  still  waters  of  the  pool, 
with  the  trees  and  the  summer  sky  reflected  in  it,  the 
deep-grassed  flowery  banks,  were  delightfully  sooth- 
ing to  the  spirit.  Sydney  understood  something  of 
the  influences  that  had  gone  to  form  this  young  man's 
character — sage  and  quiet  and  reliable — as  he  stood 
by  him,  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  confidence  he  was 
about  to  make  to  him.  His  own  love  of  nature  was 
strong,  and  this  was  the  scene  of  many  of  his  hap- 
piest hours,  and  one  of  the  centres  round  which  his 
love  for  his  inheritance  twined  itself.  Bellamy  seemed 
somehow  identified  with  Watermeads,  and  all  that  went 
on  there,  as  he  slowly  and  patiently  worked  out  his 
interpretation  of  this  well-loved  corner  of  it.  Sydney 
felt  an  increased  liking  and  respect  for  him  as  he 
threw  himself  on  the  grass  by  his  side,  and  opened  up 
his  discourse. 

Bellamy  laid  down  his  palette  and  brushes  almost 
immediately,  and  gave  his  whole  mind  to  what  was  be- 
ing said  to  him.  His  face  wore  its  customary  look  of 
gravity,  but  if  Sydney  had  looked  up  at  him  he  would 
have  found  it  more  than  usually  interested. 

It  was  rather  a  rambling  statement,  which  was 
heard  to  the  end  without  comment.  It  made  admis- 
sions that  had  not  been  made  to  Lord  Kirby.  "  I 
can't  put  it  altogether  aside,"  said  Sydney,  "  that  this 
would  be  a  good  marriage  for  Rose  from  a  worldly 
point  of  view.  For  one  thing,  she  would  be  put  quite 
above  all  the  sort  of  trouble  that  she  has  been  brought 
up  amongst,  poor  girl.  As  far  as  money  goes,  and  a 
place  in  the  world,  she'd  have  all  that;  and  it's  right 
that  a  father  should  consider  these  things.  One 


232  WATERMEADS 

doesn't  want  to  give  too  much  weight  to  them,  and  if 
it  means  giving  your  daughter  to  a  man  just  for  the 
sake  of  them,  one  wouldn't  do  it.  What  I  can't  make 
up  my  mind  about  is  whether — disliking  this  young 
man  as  heartily  as  I  do — I'm  not  giving  them  too  lit- 
tle weight.  I  know  you  don't  care  for  him,  Giles,  but 
you  can  probably  see  him  with  clearer  eyes  than  I 
can.  Tell  me  what  you  think." 

Bellamy  allowed  a  moment  to  go  by  without  speak- 
ing. Then  he  said,  in  a  voice  not  quite  like  his  own: 
"  I  think  he's  the  most  detestable  creature  of  his  sort 
I've  ever  met ;  but  I  can't  pretend  to  be  impartial  about 
him  any  more  than  you  can." 

Sydney  passed  by  without  understanding  the  im- 
mense significance  of  the  last  admission.  "  Why,  you 
use  the  very  words  I  did,"  he  said.  "  I  told  Kirby 
straight  out  that  I  detested  him.  But  I'm  bound  to 
say  that  I  couldn't  absolutely  justify  myself  when 
put  to  it.  The  personal  factor  was  too  strong.  Fred 
and  the  girls  like  him.  Nothing  I  dislike  in  him  goes 
much  below  the  surface.  If  I  thought  he  was  really 
a  wrong  'un,  I  shouldn't  have  any  hesitation.  I  should 
send  him  packing  in  double  quick  time.  You  don't 
think  he's  a  wrong  'un,  do  you?  " 

Bellamy  spoke  again  with  deliberation,  but  without 
that  note  of  repressed  emotion  in  his  voice.  "  I  think 
he 'is  inferior,  through  and  through,"  he  said.  "I've 
watched  him  closely  enough,  and  I've  never  seen  any- 
thing that  gives  one  a  chance  of  respecting  him.  His 
good  nature  is  the  best  thing  about  him,  but  it's 
purely  selfish.  He  makes  himself  agreeable  to  the  peo- 
ple he  wants  to  be  agreeable  to  him.  He'd  never  take 


BELLAMY  233 

the  slightest  trouble  about  anybody  else.  His  man- 
ners we  needn't  worry  about;  if  he  wasn't  what  his 
father  has  made  him,  nobody  would  put  up  with  them; 
as  it  is,  they  have  a  sort  of  spurious  air  that  deceives 
people — some  people.  They  seem  to  me  just  like  those 
of  a  pushing  counter-jumper." 

Sydney  laughed.  He  was  enjoying  this.  "  I 
thought  you  said  we  needn't  worry  about  his  man- 
ners," he  said. 

"  Oh,  they'll  pass — in  the  only  son  of  a  lord." 

"  Well,  you  seem  to  think  pretty  much  as  I  do.  But 
you  don't  say  any  more  than  I  do  that  he's  a  wrong 
'un." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  wrong  'un  ?  He  wouldn't 
swindle  you.  He'd  have  no  temptation  to;  he's  got 
too  much  money.  I  don't  believe  there's  much  else  he 
wouldn't  do  to  give  himself  pleasure." 

"  Have  you  any  reason — one  has  to  ask  one's  self 
that  question  and  act  on  it — to  say  that  he  isn't  a 
fit  sort  of  fellow  to  give  your  daughter  to?  Suppos- 
ing he  loves  her !  And  she  loves  him !  " 

"  If  she  loved  him," — his  voice  shook  a  little  again 
— "  she  might  keep  him  straight,  or  she  might  not. 
His  love  for  her — what's  it  worth?  Does  he  love  her 
for  what's  in  her  nature?  I  say  he's  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating it ;  there's  nothing  in  him  to  meet  it  or  draw 
it  out.  He's  taken  with  her  beauty,  and  when  he  gets 
tired  of  that,  what  will  be  left?  They've  nothing  in 
common.  His  love's  light;  it  isn't  of  the  stuff  that 
gives  promise  of  happiness." 

Sydney  spoke  unwillingly.  "  One  must  be  fair,"  he 
said.  "  In  the  first  stages,  it's  a  girl's  attractions — 


234.  WATERMEADS 

her  face,  if  you  like  to  say  so — that  count.  He  would 
get  to  know  her  better.  She's  a  girl  that  could  make 
any  man  happy  if  she  loved  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  type  of  man  finds  his  hap- 
piness in  that  way.  He  wants  novelty  and  excitement. 
He  might  keep  some  sort  of  affection  for  his  wife,  and 
yet  count  her  as  nothing  at  all  when  it  comes  to  pleas- 
ing himself." 

"Do  you  think  he  is  like  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  know  the  type,  and  I've  had  a  pretty 
bitter  experience." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Bellamy,  who  had  been 
speaking  with  far  more  fluency  and  freedom  of  manner 
than  Sydney  had  ever  heard  him  use,  broke  out  again. 
"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  you've  admitted  me  into  an  in- 
timacy and  friendship  here  such  as  I've  never  known 
anywhere  before.  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  It's 
what  I  wouldn't  say  except  to  a  friend,  but  it  seems 
to  me  to  have  a  bearing  on  what  you've  told  me.  It's 
about  my  brother.  He  and  I  were  the  greatest  of 
friends.  He  is  something  like  me  in  appearance,  but 
he's  an  infinitely  more  attractive  fellow  than  I  am,  and 
he  could  make  anybody  take  to  him  if  he  wanted  to. 
He  married  the  daughter  of  a  neighbour  of  ours — a 
girl  we'd  both  known  ever  since  she  was  a  child.  Well, 
I  was  in  love  with  her  myself,  and  I  believe  she  might 
have  married  me  if  he  hadn't  come  between  us.  Don't 
think  there  was  anything  to  complain  about  in  his  do- 
ing so;  only  he  had  never  shown  much  interest  in  her, 
and  he  had  been  away  from  home  a  great  deal,  and 
always  seemed  to  be  falling  in  love.  He  came  home 
one  autumn,  and  fell  in  love  with  her;  she  seemed  to 


BELLAMY  235 

come  as  a  sort  of  revelation  to  him,  and  he  was  in 
love  with  her,  mind  you,  and  it  seemed  to  make  a  dif- 
ferent man  of  him.  But  it  was  only  for  a  time.  You 
know  what  happened,  and  it  happened  three  years 
after  they  were  married,  and  a  year  after  their  child 
was  born.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  wife,  and  devoted 
to  his  child.  You'd  have  said  he  had  everything  he 
wanted.  But  he  threw  it  all  away." 

He  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  "  It's  a  sad  story," 
Sydney  said.  "  What  more  is  there  of  it  ?  " 

"  His  wife  is  dead,  you  know.  It  killed  her.  She 
loved  him.  She  didn't  know  he  was  like  that.  He's 
married  the  other  woman  since,  but  of  course  he  isn't 
happy  with  her.  That  may  come  to  an  end  at  any 
time.  I  don't  know  what's  happening.  I  haven't  seen 
him  since.  I  couldn't,  after  the  way  he  treated  his 
wife." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Bellamy  spoke  again  in  a 
different  tone.  "  Well,  that's  why  I  can't  look  upon 
a  man  who  is  light  in  his  way  of  loving  as  the  rest 
of  the  world  might,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  be  content  to 
leave  it  to  chance.  I  wouldn't  trust  young  Kirby — 
with  his  selfish  indulgent  nature,  and  his  opportunities 
of  gratifying  it — I  wouldn't  trust  him  to  make  a  good 
husband  to  any  girl.  My  brother  was  a  better  man 
than  he  is,  for  all  he  made  such  a  mess  of  things,  but 
they're  just  alike  in  that  respect.  Anything  for  pleas- 
ure! I  can  see  it  as  well  as  I  can  see  anything,  and 
I  see  it  much  more  plainly  now  than  I  did  at  first." 

"  Well,  I  feel  more  than  ever  that  it's  a  risk,"  said 
Sydney,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Still,  it's  a  risk  that 
every  marriage  has  to  run.  If  a  man  has  got  himself 


236  WATERMEADS 

into  that  kind  of  mess  already,  of  course  one  would 
be  quite  justified  in  making  it  a  reason  for  rejecting 
him — only  I  think  that  in  that  case  one  would  begin 
earlier  and  stop  him  becoming  intimate  from  the  first. 
I  haven't  done  that,  and  with  a  man  as  young  as 
Kirby  you  can't  say  for  certain  that  he  will  turn  out 
badly.  You  don't  know  enough  about  him." 

"  Well,  I  feel  that  I  do." 

"  Yes,  but  my  dear  fellow,  you  can't  look  at  the 
question  impartially  any  more  than  I  can." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Giles.  "  I  told  you  so  at  the 
beginning.  I'm  in  love  with  Rose  myself." 

He  took  up  his  palette  and  began  to  paint  dili- 
gently. But  there  was  a  flush  on  his  cheeks,  and  he 
hardly  knew  what  colour  he  was  putting  on  to  the  can- 
vas. 

"  You're  in  love  with  Rose!  "  exclaimed  Sydney. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I  have  been  for  a  long  time.  I've 
tried  to  hide  it.  I  thought  I  should  never  fall  in  love 
with  a  girl  again.  My  first  experience  marked  me 
pretty  deeply ;  it  has  made  a  different  man  of  me.  I've 
felt  years  older  than  I  am — until  quite  lately.  It's 
some  relief  to  tell  you  what  has  happened  to  me,  but 
you  needn't  be  afraid  of  my  upsetting  things.  I'm 
used  to  keeping  my  feelings  to  myself." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow !  To  tell  you  the  truth  I've 
had  some  idea  that  you — you  might  be  coming  to  like 
Elsie  in  that  way;  you've  been  a  good  deal  with  her, 
and — oh,  well,  the  idea  just  occurred  to  me." 

Bellamy  laughed.  "  Elsie  can't  have  thought  that," 
he  said.  "  We've  been  great  friends.  I  dared  not 
trust  myself  to  be  too  much  with  Rose.  I'm  not  sure 


BELLAMY  237 

that  Elsie  hasn't  an  inkling  of  the  truth.  But  there 
won't  be  any  complications  there." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  What  I  was  going  to  say 
was  that  the  idea  was  pleasing  to  me.  If  it's  Rose, 
it  will  be  just  as  pleasing — in  fact,  a  great  deal  more 
so,  because  it  would  remove  the  other  unpleasantness." 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  say  that.  There  aren't 
many  men  who  would  rather  I  married  their  daughter 
than  that  Kirby's  son  did." 

"  I  should  think  most  men  would,  if  they  loved  their 
daughters.  Only  the  snobs  would  prefer  young 
Kirby." 

"  Well,  then,  there  are  a  good  many  snobs  in  the 
world.  I've  got  very  little  money,  you  know,  and  shall 
never  have  much.  That  brother  of  mine  was  a  spend- 
thrift, amongst  his  other  qualities,  and  we're  not  rich, 
though  my  father  has  a  good  property." 

"  Like  to  like  then,  except  that  I've  got  practically 
no  money  at  all.  My  girls  won't  have  a  penny." 

Bellamy  looked  at  him  with  a  smile.  "  Do  you 
really  mean  that  you  would  welcome  me  as  Rose's  hus- 
band ? "  he  asked.  "  She  might  marry  anybody,  as 
they  put  it.  She  has  already  attracted  to  herself 
what  Lady  Sophia  calls  the  prize  of  the  County." 

"  Oh,  Sophia !  She  thinks  of  nothing  but  that  sort 
of  thing.  Anyway,  young  Kirby  isn't  as  big  an  egg 
as  that,  however  you  like  to  look  at  him.  I  should  be 
sorry  for  the  poor  old  County  if  he  were.  Could  you 
give  Rose  a  comfortable  home,  Giles?" 

"  I  might  raise  about  six  hundred  a  year,  apart 
from  what  I  can  make.  That's  beginning  to  count 
for  something,  and  may  increase  considerably — prob- 


238  WATERMEADS 

ably  will,  I  should  say.  But  I  don't  suppose  I  shall 
ever  touch  the  two  thousand  mark,  with  everything 
included.  I've  nothing  much  to  offer  a  girl  like  Rose." 

"  You've  got  more  to  offer  her  than  she  has  ever 
had,  poor  girl.  It's  good  enough  for  me,  Giles,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  she  won't  look  at  that  side  of  it. 
I  wish  you'd  go  in  and  win,  and  remove  that  Kirby 
incubus  from  us." 

Bellamy  took  up  his  brushes  again.  "  I'll  think 
about  it,"  he  said,  almost  indifferently. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

MR.  BLUMENTHAL 

IT  was  not  so  curious,  considering  her  remarkable  od- 
dities of  character,  that  Mrs.  Conway  should  have  in- 
vited Mr.  Blumenthal  to  a  tete-a-tete  luncheon  with 
her  at  Watermeads,  as  that  that  gentleman  should 
have  accepted  the  invitation.  For  Watermeads,  as 
has  been  said,  was  a  three  hours'  railway  journey 
from  London,  with  a  two  and  a  half  mile  drive  tacked 
on  to  the  end  of  it,  and  Mrs.  Conway  had  uncompro- 
misingly announced  that  she  could  not  send  anything 
to  meet  him,  but  that  there  would  probably  be  a  fly 
at  the  station. 

Mr.  Blumenthal  found  a  fly  and  drove  up  in  it, 
shortly  before  one  o'clock.  He  wore  a  frock  coat,  a 
silk  hat,  and  patent  leather  boots,  and  carried  a 
neatly  rolled  umbrella  with  a  gold  top,  though  the 
brazen  August  sky  showed  no  sign  of  rain.  He  was 
received  at  the  door  by  Alice,  in  a  clean  cap  and 
apron,  and  shown  through  the  great  hall,  upon  which 
he  threw  appreciative  glances,  into  the  parlour,  which 
was  cool  and  inviting  after  the  glare  outside.  So  far 
there  had  been  little  to  indicate  the  extreme  poverty 
that  brooded  over  Watermeads,  and  Mr.  Blumenthal 
had  been  told  nothing  about  that  poverty.  Fred  had 
not  sought  to  hide  it  from  him.  Mr.  Blumenthal  had 
known  that  he  was  working  with  his  cousin's  firm, 

239 


240  WATERMEADS 

which  was  a  sound  and  reputable  one,  and  was  about 
to  leave  it  for  the  still  brighter  promise  of  his  uncle's 
patronage.  The  name  of  the  Right  Honourable  Mark 
Drake  was  one  to  conjure  with  in  the  political  party 
with  which  Mr.  Blumenthal,  upon  taking  out  his  papers 
of  naturalisation,  had  identified  himself.  And  it  meant 
money  besides;  Mr.  Blumenthal  happened  to  know 
that. 

But  although  the  excessive  poverty  of  Watermeads 
had  been  concealed  from  Mr.  Blumenthal,  wittingly  by 
his  daughter,  unconsciously  by  Fred,  he  had  none  the 
less  received  a  series  of  slight  shocks,  which  had  some- 
what aroused  his  keen  critical  faculty.  The  necessity 
for  the  station  fly  was  one  of  them.  If  not  a  motor- 
car, a  carriage  and  pair  ought  to  have  been  expected 
from  such  a  house.  The  hurdles  at  the  west  gate, 
which  the  flyman  had  had  to  get  down  to  put  aside, 
provided  the  second.  The  opening  of  the  door  by  a 
maid  of  the  appearance  associated  in  Mr.  Blumen- 
thal's  mind  with  respectable  seaside  lodgings,  instead 
of  by  a  butler  or  a  footman  or  both,  as  his  own  door 
would  have  been  opened,  was  the  strongest.  But  the 
imposing  appearance  of  the  house,  the  size  of  the  great 
hall,  and  the  handsome  staircase,  had  tended  to  mod- 
ify the  effect  of  these  disappointments,  and  Mr.  Blu- 
menthal was  merely  a  little  puzzled,  as  he  was  left  to 
himself  in  the  cool  parlour,  to  reduce  the  moisture  on 
his  face  by  hasty  dabbings  of  his  handkerchief,  and  to 
wonder  for  the  hundredth  time  what  Mrs.  Conway's 
summons  portended. 

She  had  written  quite  politely,  but  rather  in  the 
manner  of  one  issuing  a  command,  asking  him  for  a 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  241 

private  interview  on  a  matter  of  importance.  The 
rest  of  the  family — and  their  guests — would  be  out  for 
the  day.  Would  he  kindly  come  by  such  and  such  a 
train  and  leave  by  such  and  such  another?  They 
would  have  plenty  of  time  for  their  talk,  and  she 
should  be  pleased  to  give  him  luncheon.  Would  he 
oblige  her  by  not  mentioning  her  request  to  his 
daughter,  until  after  she  had  seen  him? 

The  summons,  remarkable  enough,  had  not  particu- 
larly struck  him  as  so.  He  was  a  kow-tower  by  na- 
ture, and  had  formed  an  exaggerated  opinion  of  the 
importance  of  the  people  to  whom  fyis  daughter  was 
about  to  ally  herself, — an  opinion  which  Mrs.  Con- 
way's  half  gracious  half  peremptory  letter  had  not 
lessened.  He  knew  very  little  of  English  life,  outside 
his  City  and  suburban  circles,  though  he  thought 
he  knew  a  good  deal.  He  wanted  to  get  on  so- 
cially, and  had  formed  the  idea  that  the  Conways 
could  help  him.  He  was  thus  in  an  encouraging  con- 
dition to  receive  Mrs.  Conway's  proposal  of  a  bar- 
gain to  be  struck,  with  his  money  on  the  one  side  and 
her  family's  status  on  the  other,  provided  only  that 
she  could  find  the  right  way  of  recommending  it  to 
him.  But  he  was  quite  unprepared  to  discover  that  the 
striking  of  such  a  bargain  was  the  purpose  of  her  sum- 
mons. All  sorts  of  conjectures  had  passed  through 
his  mind,  from  that  as  to  whether  he  was  to  be  ex- 
amined as  to  his  own  personal  fitness  for  the  alliance 
about  to  be  contracted — this  accounted  for  the  elab- 
orate costume — to  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  some  of 
his  dealings  in  the  City  might  have  come  to  those 
exalted  ears,  and  furnished  matter  for  comment, 


242  WATERMEADS 

though  anything  in  that  way  was  of  course  capable  of 
satisfactory  explanation.  The  nearest  he  had  got  to 
the  truth  was  a  possible  discussion  as  to  what  he  was 
prepared  to  *  put  down '  for  Freda,  and  in  his  slight 
nervousness  he  had  considerably  increased  this  amount, 
so  that  it  could  only  be  regarded  as  extremely  hand- 
some. 

Waiting  in  the  parlour,  however,  for  Mrs.  Conway's 
appearance,  he  was  inclined  to  reconsider  this  ques- 
tion, or  at  least  to  leave  it  in  abeyance  till  he  should 
see  which  way  the  wind  blew.  The  parlour,  charm- 
ing as  it  was  in  its  placid  homeliness,  was  not  the 
sort  of  room  likely  to  impress  Mr.  Blumenthal,  whose 
tastes  ran  to  gilt  and  plush,  and  the  more  of  them 
the  better.  He  did,  however,  know  a  great  deal  about 
the  value  of  pictures,  and  there  were  one  or  two  hang- 
ing on  the  walls  which  inclined  the  wavering  balance 
of  his  opinion  about  Watermeads  once  more  to  ap- 
proval. He  was  busy  examining  one  of  them  when 
Mrs.  Conway  came  in. 

She  was  one  of  those  women  whose  taste  in  dress 
runs  to  all  sorts  of  odd  little  pieces  of  silk  and  lace 
and  *  trimmings,'  tacked  on  according  to  a  possibly 
well  thought  out  scheme,  but  creating  the  effect  of 
ornament  rather  overdone.  No  amount  of  orna- 
ment, however,  could  ever  strike  Mr.  Blumenthal  as 
too  profuse,  and  Mrs.  Conway  appeared  to  him  to 
be  a  very  well-dressed  woman,  as  well  as  a  majes- 
tic one. 

She  did  not  shake  hands  with  him,  but  bowed  in  a 
stately  and  gracious  fashion  as  she  motioned  him  to 
a  seat.  "  I  thought  we  might  have  our  little  talk  be- 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  243 

fore  luncheon,"  she  said,  "  unless  you  are  very  hun- 
gry, Mr.  Blumenthal." 

Mr.  Blumenthal  was  hungry  after  his  journey,  and 
it  was  already  half  past  one,  at  which  time  his  habit 
was  to  have  finished  a  meal  more  substantial  than 
would  agree  with  most  men  of  middle-age  who  do  not 
go  in  for  corrective  exercise.  But  he  politely  dis- 
claimed hunger,  and  took  the  chair  indicated  to  him 
with  a  smile  of  almost  servile  amiability. 

He  was  a  stout  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  florid  com- 
plexion and  little  dark  moustache.  His  features  were 
not  markedly  Semitic,  but  were  enough  so,  taken  with 
his  name,  to  have  given  rise  to  the  impression  that  he 
was  at  least  of  Jewish  origin.  This,  however,  he  had 
always  disclaimed,  and  was  prepared  to  do  so  now, 
forcibly,  if  it  was  that  that  was  wanted  to  be  discov- 
ered about  him. 

Mrs.  Conway  made  no  apology  for  the  possible  in- 
convenience she  had  put  him  to.  "  When  one  has  some- 
thing to  discuss  in  private,"  she  said,  "  it  is  better  to 
have  a  personal  interview.  That  was  why  I  asked  you 
to  be  good  enough  to  come  and  see  me  at  a  time  when 
I  happened  to  be  alone.  I  am  sorry  that  you  should 
have  missed  meeting  my  husband,  but  I  quite  hope  that 
in  the  future  you  will  have  other  opportunities.  At 
present  we  are  unable  to  ask  a  great  number  of  peo- 
ple to  stay  with  us,  but  naturally,  if  your  daughter 
marries  my  son,  we  shall  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  both  you  and  Mrs.  Blumenthal  here." 

It  had  not  before  occurred  to  her  to  hold  out  any 
such  promise,  but  she  had  been  regarding  Mr.  Blu- 
menthal during  the  progress  of  her  speech,  and  was 


244  WATERMEADS 

rather  inclined  to  approve  of  him.  The  total  unsuita- 
bility  of  his  attire  for  the  purposes  of  his  day  had 
not  struck  her,  as  it  would  have  struck  most  people 
accustomed  to  seeing  men  dressed  in  country  clothes. 
Her  observant  capacities  did  not  run  on  those  lines. 
Mr.  Blumenthal  was  a  rich  City  man,  and  looked  it. 
His  ingratiating  manner  also  pleased  her,  as  indicat- 
ing a  readiness  to  fall  in  with  the  views  she  was  about 
to  express  to  him. 

Mr.  Blumenthal  was  delighted  with  her  address. 
He  saw  himself  and  his  wife  staying  as  guests  in  a 
large  country  house,  meeting  all  sorts  of  big  *  County  ' 
wigs — he  had  all  the  names  of  the  important  residents 
of  this  part  of  Meadshire  at  his  fingers'  ends — and 
talking  about  it  afterwards.  "  I,  too,  am  sorry  not 
to  see  Mr.  Gonway,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  a  great  bleas- 
ure  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Madam,  and  to  hear 
that  my  little  Freda  has  had  such  a  kind  welcome." 

"  We  are  very  pleased  with  Freda,"  said  Mrs.  Con- 
way  graciously.  "  She  has  earned  the  commendation 
of  all.  Her  manner  towards  myself  is  that  of  a 
daughter  towards  a  mother,  which  is  exactly  what  it 
ought  to  be,  and  naturally  inclines  me  towards  her." 
Here  she  took  a  new  breath.  "  Naturally,  Mr.  Blu- 
menthal, a  mother's  chief  thought  in  such  matters  as 
these  is  for  her  children's  happiness.  If  Freda  had 
been  the  daughter  of  one  of  our  neighbours  around 
here,  or  of  the  large  number  of  friends  we  have  out- 
side amongst  people  in  a  position  like  ourselves, 
we  should  have  welcomed  this  proposed  marriage 
warmly.  She  is  a  sweet  girl — I  say  it  advisedly — and 
my  own  opinion  is  that  Fred  is  assured  of  happiness 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  245 

with  her.  I  should  not  have  cared  for  a  moment  about 
anything  that  she  might  have  brought  with  her;  such 
a  thought  would  not  have  entered  my  head  for  a  mo- 
ment; it  would  have  been  utterly  repugnant  to  me  to 
consider  such  a  thing." 

Mr.  Blumenthal  admired  the  easy  flow  of  her  dis- 
course, and  the  play  that  she  made  with  her  shapely 
hands.  But  his  business  habits  of  going  directly  to 
a  point,  and  his  growing  hunger,  compelled  him  to 
cut  it  short  at  this  point.  "  Oh,  yes,  I  quite  under- 
stand, Madam,"  he  said.  "  Your  marriages  have  been 
made  with  people  of  your  own  sort,  as  you  say,  and 
my  Freda  is  not  of  your  own  sort.  But  she  is  a  lady, 
and  very  bretty,  and  I  have  spent,  oh,  colossal  sums 
of  money  in  giving  her  every  advantage,  and  the  re- 
sult is,  Mrs.  Gonway,  that  you  are  delighted  with  her, 
and  I  am  delighted,  too,  that  you  are  delighted.  But 
that  is  not  all.  Freda  is  my  only  child,  and  I  am 
what  you  call  a  warm  man.  By  and  by  I  shall  be  a 
millionaire.  There  is  no  doubt  about  that;  I  am  not 
far  off  it  already,  and  I  should  like  you  to  know  it. 
Freda  will  have  my  money  after  I  am  dead,  and  I  in- 
tend to  provide  her  with  a  handsome  dowry  on  her 
marriage.  How  much  I  am  not  quite  prepared  to  say, 
but  it  will  be  a  handsome  dowry.  It  is  what  you  call 
quid  pro  quo,  isn't  it?  Freda  will  have  what  your 
young  Fred  can  give  her,  and  he  will  have  what  /  can 
give  her.  What  you  call  gomfortable  all  round,  eh?" 

If  Mrs.  Conway  had  then  and  there  demanded  the 
amount  of  Freda's  dowry,  Mr.  Blumenthal  would  have 
announced  a  sum  rather  less  than  he  was  prepared  to 
go  to,  but  much  in  excess  of  what  would  have  pro- 


246  WATERMEADS 

vided  for  all  that  she  had  intended  to  bargain  for. 
But  she  wanted  to  talk  *  about  it  and  about,'  and  did 
not  use  her  opportunity. 

"  That  is  quite  satisfactory  as  far  as  it  goes,  Mr. 
Blumenthal,"  she  said.  "  I  will  not  deny  that,  things 
being  what  they  are,  the  money  side  of  the  question 
**  a  consideration.  I  should  not»be  doing  my  duty  by 
myself  or  my  family  if  I  did  not  admit  it.  Now,  I 
don't  know  whether  you  are  aware  that  the  Conways 
have  lived  here  at  Watermeads  for  nearly  three  hun- 
dred years.  They  have  always  lived  in  the  past  in 
considerable  style,  as  became  their  position  and  the 
size  of  their  property.  You  have  seen  the  outside  of 
this  house,  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself  what  it 
implies  in  the  expenditure  of  its  owners.  In  the  past, 
Mr.  Blumenthal,  the  Conways  would  have  had  no  need 
to  welcome  a  marriage  for  the  eldest  son  of  their  house 
that  simply  brought  in  money.  They  would  have 
scorned  to  consider  it." 

Mr.  Blumenthal  was  beginning  to  wonder  exactly 
how  much  need  there  was  of  overcoming  their  scorn 
in  the  present.  The  size  of  the  house  had  certainly 
impressed  him,  but  so  had  the  station  fly,  and  the  hur- 
dles, and  Alice  in  her  cap  and  apron.  He  kept  wary 
silence  for  more  to  follow,  with  an  agreeable  anticipa- 
tion of  lunch  in  the  background  of  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Conway  pursued  her  course,  with  intense  ap- 
preciation of  her  own  powers  of  speech  and  clarity  of 
exposition.  "  That,"  she  said,  "  has  unfortunately 
come  to  an  end.  Landed  property  is  not  what  it  was 
— not  by  any  means — and  although  the  Conways  are 
as  old  a  family — almost — as  you  will  find  anywhere, 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  247 

and  still  live  in  the  fine  house  which  you  have  seen  for 
yourself,  anything  like  the  former  state  that  was  kept 
up  at  Watermeads  has  unfortunately  become  impos- 
sible. That  things  might  not  be  better  than  they  ac- 
tually are  I  do  not  say.  Mistakes  have  been  made — it 
is  not  for  me  to  say  by  whom  or  to  impute  blame  to 
anybody;  I  have  always  been  ready  with  my  advice, 

and  it  has  not  always  been  taken.  If  it  had  been 

However,  that  is  not  the  point." 

It  was  so  very  much  not  any  kind  of  point  that 
should  have  been  hinted  at  to  Mr.  Blumenthal  that 
that  gentleman  can  hardly  be  blamed  for  wondering 
if  something  rather  serious  was  not  at  the  back  of 
it.  He  knew  that  men  of  good  birth  are  not  immune 
from  temptations  to  financial  irregularity,  and  he  did 
not  want  to  be  mixed  up  with  any  shady  gentlemen  of 
quality  who  would  sponge  on  him,  and  perhaps  involve 
his  name  in  unpleasant  rumour. 

"  Has  Mr.  Gonway  been  unfortunate  in  specula- 
tion? "  he  enquired  with  a  directness  that  demanded 
an  answer. 

Mrs.  Conway  bethought  herself.  "  I  will  not  deny," 
she  said,  "  that  at  one  period  there  was  a  gold  mine, 
which  absorbed  some  thousands  of  pounds  that  could 
more  usefully  have  been  employed  otherwise.  I  was 
entirely  against  the  investment,  but  it  held  out  such 
hopes  of  a  rich  return  that  I  allowed  myself  to  be 
overruled.  Not  one  penny  has  ever  come  back  from 
it.  There  was  a  question  of  someone  or  something 
turning  out  refractory,  which  I  do  not  pretend  to  un- 
derstand, but  the  result  was  as  I  had  anticipated." 

"  Never  touch  a  gold  mine,"  said  Mr?  Blumenthal, 


248  WATERMEADS 

with    conviction.       "  What    else    has    Mr.     Gonway 
dropped  his  money  over  ?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  did  not  notice  his  change  of  tone, 
which  was  that  of  a  man  seeking  for  information  and 
meaning  to  have  it.  She  was  always  ready  to  impart 
information,  especially  to  a  new  audience,  and  Mr. 
Blumenthal  appeared  to  her  to  be  a  highly  satisfac- 
tory one,  owing  to  the  interest  he  showed  in  what  she 
was  telling  him. 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  any  other  investments  of  that 
nature,"  she  said.  "  When  it  turned  out  badly  I  took 
a  strong  stand,  and  said,  much  as  you  have,  Mr.  Blu 
menthal:  '  A^o  more  gold  mines!'  In  fact,  no  more 
mines  of  any  sort,  or  indeed  anything  that  absorbs 
money,  which  is  badly  wanted  for  other  purposes,  and 
does  not  return  it.  I  am  happy  to  say  that  in  that 
respect  my  advice  has  been  followed,  though  how  far 
that  would  have  been  the  case  if  there  had  been 
further  sums  of  money  that  could  have  been  treated 
in  that  way  I  do  not  know." 

"  Then  that  was  the  end  of  money  that  could  be 
invested,"  suggested  Mr.  Blumenthal. 

"  That  particular  sum  of  money  came  out  of  the 
proceeds  of  an  important  family  portrait.  It  was  by 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  whom  you  may  have  heard  of, 
Mr.  Blumenthal.  It  was  of  the  Lady  Penelope  Con- 
way,  an  ancestress  of  my  husband's." 

"  I  have  seen  the  bicture  in  New  York,"  said  Mr. 
Blumenthal.  "  It  was  sold  for  seventeen  thousand 
pounds." 

"  Unfortunately,  we  received  nothing  like  that  price 
for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  But  what  we  did  receive, 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  249 

if  part  of  it  had  not  been  invested  in  the  way  I  have 
told  you  of,  would  have  set  us  right  for  a  good  many 
years.  As  it  was,  other  family  treasures  have  had  to 
go,  and  I  sometimes  think  that  by  and  by  we  shall 
have  nothing  left  at  all." 

"  You  have  been  obliged  to  sell  other  bictures  ?  "  en- 
quired Mr.  Blumenthal. 

She  told  him  what  had  had  to  be  sold,  and  the  prices 
that  some  of  the  treasures  had  fetched;  also  the  vari- 
ous purposes  to  which  the  money  had  been  applied. 
It  was  satisfactory  to  pour  out  her  troubles  into  the 
ears  of  so  sympathetic  a  listener.  "  Of  course  we 
must  educate  our  sons  for  the  positions  we  hope  they 
will  fill  by  and  by,"  she  said,  "  and  in  the  way  that 
the  sons  of  the  family  have  always  been  educated.  I 
am  far  from  grudging  money  for  that.  And  we  must 
keep  a  roof  over  our  heads,  and  provide  ourselves  with 
food.  I  do  all  that  I  can  to  cut  down  expenses  to  the 
utmost  limit,  but  sometimes  my  task  appears  to  me  to 
be  almost  hopeless.  Ah,  there  is  the  luncheon  bell.  I 
am  sure  you  must  be  hungry  after  your  journey;  we 
can  finish  our  talk  afterwards.  I  will  ring  for  the 
maid  to  take  you  up  to  my  husband's  dressing-room, 
where  you  will  find  hot  water  and  a  clean  towel.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  you  would  like  to  wash  your 
hands." 

When  Mrs.  Conway  and  Mr.  Blumenthal  met  again 
in  the  dining-room,  the  atmosphere  had  somewhat 
changed.  Mrs.  Conway  had  been  asking  herself 
whither  the  conversation  she  had  so  much  enjoyed 
was  leading,  and  been  forced  to  the  unpleasant  conclu- 
sion that  she  had  let  her  tongue  run  away  with  her. 


250  WATERMEADS 

She  did  not  put  it  to  herself  quite  like  that,  but  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  her  usual  habit  of  sad- 
dling anybody  but  herself  with  responsibility  for  the 
family  misfortunes  must  have  given  Mr.  Blumenthal 
a  far  deeper  insight  into  those  misfortunes  than  at 
all  suited  her  purpose.  She  spent  rather  a  disagree- 
able five  minutes  with  her  own  thoughts  until  he  re- 
joined her,  but  made  up  her  mind  that  the  mistake 
she  had  made  was  not  past  mending;  and  might  even, 
if  properly  handled,  lead  to  good  results. 

As  for  Mr.  Blumenthal,  he  followed  the  maid  up  to 
Sydney's  dressing-room  with  the  uneasy  feeling  that, 
in  the  expressive  parlance  of  his  business  circle,  he  had 
been  *  sold  a  pup,'  and  with  the  firm  intention  of  exam- 
ining the  bargain  a  good  deal  more  exhaustively  be- 
fore he  closed  with  it.  Why,  if  what  this  imposing 
lady  had  been  telling  him  was  true,  which  there  was 
no  reason  to  doubt,  the  family  must  be  on  the  very 
verge  of  bankruptcy.  By  her  own  showing  they  had 
been  living  for  years  on  the  sale  of  their  valuables, 
and  people  did  not  do  that,  in  Mr.  Blumenthal's  ex- 
perience, until  every  other  source  of  income  was  at 
an  end.  The  estate  was  sure  to  be  mortgaged  up  to 
the  hilt,  and  might  be  foreclosed  upon  at  any  moment. 
And  if  that  happened,  what  became  of  the  Conway 
social  value?  Mr.  Blumenthal's  ideas  upon  such  mat- 
ters were  not  altogether  in  accordance  with  facts,  but 
it  was  quite  clear  to  him  that  a  County  family  di- 
vorced from  its  estates,  and  not  possessing  a  title,  had 
less  to  depend  upon  than  a  City  family  that  might 
come  to  possess  both.  No ;  unless  everything  was 
thoroughly  examined,  and  found  capable  of  being  put 


MR.  BLUMENTHAL  251 

on  a  satisfactory  business  footing,  Freda  should  be 
summoned  home  forthwith.  There  were  other  fish  in 
the  sea,  amongst  which  she  might  disport  herself.  Mr. 
Blumenthal  was  not  going  to  pour  golden  money  into 
these  waters. 

His  mood  of  suspicion  was  not  lessened  by  the  room 
in  which  he  was  shown  to  wash  his  hands.  If  it  re- 
flected its  owner's  tastes,  as  it  did,  it  reflected  none 
that  were  likely  to  find  favour  with  Mr.  Blumenthal. 
It  .was  a  large  square  room,  like  most  of  the  rooms 
at  Watermeads,  facing  south.  Sydney  liked  plenty 
of  air  apd  plenty  of  light,  and  had  long  since  ban- 
ished both  curtains  and  blinds  from  the  windows.  The 
carpet  had  disappeared  at  about  the  same  time.  It 
had  worn  into  holes,  and  Sydney  had  said  that  he  pre- 
ferred bare  boards.  He  also  liked  plenty  of  floor 
space,  so  the  large  four-post  bed  had  been  removed 
at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  and  a  small  iron  one  had 
since  been  put  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  The  other 
furniture  was  old  and  solid,  but  hardly  corrected  the 
impression  made  by  the  large  bareness  and  the  small 
iron  bed.  The  paper  .on  the  walls  was  faded  and 
stained,  the  paint  of  the  woodwork  had  peeled  and 
cracked  in  the  sun,  the  ceiling  had  fallen  in  one  cor- 
ner, but  not  extensively  enough  to  demand  the  repara- 
tion of  the  whole,  and  the  lathes  had  been  left  show- 
ing. 

Sydney's  toilet  accessories  were  of  the  simplest. 
Mr.  Blumenthal  brushed  his  sleek  black  hair  with  a 
wooden-backed  brush  that  had  cost  a  few  shillings 
when  all  its  bristles  had  been  intact,  which  now  they 
were  not,  and  looked  with  surprise  at  other  toilet 


252  WATERMEADS 

articles  which  formed  a  marked  contrast  to  the  heavy 
silver  that  crowded  his  own  dressing-table  at  home. 
A  threadbare  dressing-gown  hung  from  a  hook  on  one 
of  the  doors;  an  apparatus  for  the  exercise  of  mus- 
cles was  fixed  to  the  other. 

There  were  many  pictures  on  the  walls,  but  none  of 
them  were  of  any  value.  Mr.  Blumenthal  derived 
some  comfort  from  the  names  attached  to  some  of  the 
old  photographic  groups,  of  which  there  was  a  large 
number,  but  the  comfort  was  small.  The  Conway  con- 
nections and  status  in  the  past  were  beyond  doubt. 
The  trying  question  was,  what  were  they  worth  in 
the  present? 


CHAPTER    XIX 

AN  OFFER 

MRS.  CONWAY  had  ordered  quite  a  nice  little  lunch  for 
herself  and  Mr.  Blumenthal.  With  late  dinners  once 
more  the  order  of  the  day,  it  was  possible  to  make  up 
tasty  little  dishes  to  replace  the  joints  and  puddings 
of  the  usual  mid-day  meal.  There  was  a  vegetable 
soup,  a  dish  of  stuffed  eggs,  and  another  of  kromeskis. 
The  sweet  was  a  gooseberry  fool,  and  there  were  lit- 
tle biscuits  and  squares  of  cheese  to  finish  up  with. 
There  was  a  choice  of  beverages  between  ginger  ale 
and  cold  water,  and  a  small  cup  of  coffee  was  provided 
afterwards. 

Unfortunately,  Mrs.  Conway  forgot  to  invite  Mr. 
Blumenthal  to  smoke  when  it  came  to  this  stage. 
Under  the  soothing  influence  of  one  of  the  expensive 
cigars  that  he  carried  in  his  pocket,  he  might  have  for- 
gotten the  various  voids  that  his  meal  had  done  lit- 
tle to  fill.  But  he  did  not  like  to  ask  for  permission, 
and  sat  with  a  savage  feeling  of  baulked  desire  always 
increasing  upon  him,  while  his  hostess  held  forth  upon 
a  variety  of  subjects,  none  of  which  had  any  bearing 
upon  what  was  in  both  their  minds. 

Mr.  Blumenthal  was  very  near  to  *  jucking  the  whole 
goncern,'  ordering  his  fly  round  forthwith,  and  driv- 
ing back  to  the  station  hotel  at  Sailsby  for  a  satis- 
factory meal  before  taking  the  train  back  to  Lon- 

253 


254  WATERMEADS 

don.  But  he  wanted  to  see  more  of  Watermeads,  and 
especially  the  pictures,  and  controlled  himself  suffi- 
ciently to  ask  politely  if  he  might  be  shown  them. 

Mrs.  Conway  graciously  conceded  the  request. 
There  was  yet  an  hour  and  a  half  before  Mr.  Blumen- 
thal  need  leave  to  catch  his  train.  When  they  had 
gone  over  the  house,  perhaps  they  might  finish  their 
talk  on  the  terrace  behind  it.  It  was  cool  and  shady, 
and  it  would  be  pleasant  to  be  out  of  doors. 

Mr.  Blumenthal  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
smoke  when  they  were  out  of  doors,  with  or  without 
permission,  and  lost  something  of  his  acute  irritation 
and  discomfort  of  body  as  he  made  the  decision.  He 
was  interested  in  the  pictures,  and  especially  in  the 
reputed  Holbein,  about  which  he  asked  a  great  many 
questions  as  he  stood  before  it.  "  Oh,  a  Holbein, 
no ! "  he  said,  throwing  out  his  hands  when  he  had 
closely  examined  it ;  "  but  it  is  a  beautiful  bigture. 
If  Mr.  Gonway  would  like  to  sell  it,  I  will  give  him 
five  hundred  pounds  for  it  and  take  my  chance.  But 
I  should  not  try  to  sell  it  again.  I  should  geep  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  in  the  least  likely  that  my  hus- 
band would  sell  it,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  with  hauteur. 
"  It  is  a  family  portrait,  and  in  spite  of  what  has  been 
said  is  almost  certainly  by  Holbein." 

"  By  Holbein,  no,"  said  Mr.  Blumenthal  again. 
"  By  some  one  of  his  school  probably  yes.  But  it  is 
a  beautiful  bigture,  and  I  will  give  Mr.  Gonway  a 
thousand  pounds  for  it.  It  is  zertainly  not  worth  any- 
thing like  that,  but  when  I  like  a  bigture  I  do  not  mind 
what  I  give  for  it." 

He  produced  one  or  two  instances  of  his  picture- 


AN  OFFER  255 

buying  feats,  to  which  Mrs.  Conway  listened  with  cold 
politeness.  The  very  mention  of  money  seemed  to  be 
abhorrent  to  her,  and  the  impression  she  created,  or 
would  have  created  but  for  the  talk  before  luncheon, 
was  that  it  was  quite  out  of  the  question  that  anything 
whatever  should  be  sold  out  of  Watermeads,  and  that 
it  was  indelicate  to  suggest  it.  She  promised,  how- 
ever, as  Mr.  Blumenthal  pressed  the  point,  to  mention 
his  offer  to  her  husband,  and  there  the  matter  was 
left. 

Mr.  Blumenthal's  sharp  black  eyes  were  used  to 
their  utmost  capacity  as  they  went  over  the  various 
show  rooms  of  the  house,  but  he  made  no  remarks 
upon  the  state  of  them,  and  by  the  time  they  were  set- 
tled on  the  garden  terrace,  Mrs.  Conway  had  recov- 
ered the  greater  part  of  her  assurance  of  mind,  and 
was  prepared  to  come  to  the  point  at  once  and  finish 
it  all  off  before  Mr.  Blumenthal  had  recovered  from 
the  impression  created  by  his  tour  of  inspection. 

She  cleared  her  throat  preparatory  to  beginning 
her  speech,  but  Mr.  Blumenthal,  who  was  feeling 
rather  better,  with  a  fragrant  cigar  between  his  teeth, 
frustrated  her.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Gonway,"  he  said,  in  a 
slightly  more  familiar  manner  than  he  had  hitherto 
used,  "  I  am  glad  you  have  given  me  the  obbortunity 
of  seeing  something  of  how  it  is  here.  Without  going 
into  questions  more  fully  than  is  possible  just  at  pres- 
ent, I  would  not  led  my  Freda  marry  your  Fred  as  it 
is  now  brobosed.  Bot  I  think  we  might  bossibly  come 
to  an  amigable  understanding.  What  I  would  do 
would  be  to  dake  over  the  broberty  as  it  stands,  with 
the  house  and  all  its  gontents,  and  do  it  up  for  the 


256  WATERMEADS 

young  beoble  to  live  in  it.  I  would  also  brovide  them 
with  a  suitable  income.  That  is  my  offer,  subjegt  to 
examination  by  lawyers  as  to  amount  of  liability  to 
be  gleared  off  the  estate,  about  which  I  know  noth- 

ing." 

Mrs.  Conway  had  not  quite  taken  it  all  in,  but  it 
sounded  very  much  like  what  she  had  been  intending 
to  propose  herself — with  one  small  exception  of  detail. 
"  I  don't  think,"  she  said  graciously,  "  that  it  would 
be  the  best  arrangement  that  could  be  made  for  the 
young  people  to  live  here  in  this  house  with  us,  though 
of  course  after  my  husband's  death  they  will  come 
here  as  a  matter  of  course.  There  is  a  very  charming 
house " 

"  Oh,  I  was  not  brobosing  that  they  should  live  here 
with  you,  Mrs.  Gonway,"  Mr.  Blumenthal  interrupted 
her.  "  That  would  never  do.  You  have  made  it  quite 
clear  to  me  that  you  cannot  go  on  living  here  much 
longer  in  any  gase.  What  I  therefore  suggest  is  that 
you  should  give  up  the  house  at  once  to  your  eldest 
son,  who  as  you  say  will  have  it  as  a  madder  of  course 
by  and  by.  You  will  be  relieved  of  an  ingubus  and  a 
whide  elevant,  and  the  young  gouble  will  be  handsomely 
brovided  for,  and  will  be  able  to  cut  a  dash  in  the 
style  of  old  times  that  you  have  told  me  about." 

Mrs.  Conway  was  collecting  her  faculties  for  of- 
fended speech,  but  Mr.  Blumenthal  gulped  down  the 
remainder  of  his  coffee  and  rose  from  his  seat.  "  Well, 
that  is  my  offer,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  if 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  talk  it  over  with  your 
husband  and  ask  him  to  write  to  me.  Now  I  will  drive 
back  to  the  station.  I  can  find  the  fly  for  myself. 


AN   OFFER  257 

Goodbye,  Mrs.  Gonway,  and  thank  you  for  a  very 
pleasant  meeting." 

He  had  shaken  hands  and  taken  himself  off  with  a 
quick  step,  before  Mrs.  Conway  had  time  to  open  her 
mouth.  She  opened  it,  nevertheless,  when  she  was  left 
alone,  and  sat  where  she  was  for  some  time  before  she 
bethought  herself  to  close  it.  When  she  had  closed 
it  she  still  continued  to  sit  where  she  was  until  Parker, 
Freda's  maid,  came  out  to  her  with  her  head  held  high 
and  a  supercilious  look  upon  her  face  that  Mrs.  Con- 
way  found  it  hard  to  put  up  with.  "  Mr.  Blumenthal 
asked  me  to  remind  you,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "  of  the 
message  he  sent  to  Mr.  Conway  about  a  picture  he 
wishes  to  buy." 

Then  Parker  went  indoors  again,  still  carrying  her 
head  and  her  nose  high.  And  Mrs.  Conway  sat  on 
where  she  was. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  good  lady  had  ever  found 
herself  in  such  difficulties  as  to  the  best  way  in  which 
to  carry  on  a  discussion  with  her  husband  as  when 
the  picnic  party  returned  home,  and  she  had  to  give 
an  account  of  her  late  interview.  It  did  not  at  first 
transpire  that  she  had  invited  Mr.  Blumenthal  to  it. 
He  seemed  to  have  dropped  in  to  luncheon  in  a  casual 
sort  of  way,  and  then  behaved  in  a  most  *  unaccount- 
able '  manner.  But  a  very  few  questions  put  Sydney 
in  possession  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  he  showed 
such  dismay  that  Mrs.  Conway  was  driven  to  defence 
of  her  action  almost  immediately.  As,  for  once  in 
a  way  she  had  been  forced  to  admit  to  herself  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake,  if  not  a  series  of  them,  she  was 
not  so  much  at  her  ease  as  usual  in  her  impartial  ap- 


258  WATERMEADS 

portionment  of  blame  all  round,  but  would  probably 
have  argued  herself  into  her  customary  attitude  of 
frustrated  righteousness  if  she  had  met  with  enough 
opposition. 

But  Sydney  said  quietly :  "  I  think  we  had  better 
have  Fred  in  and  tell  him  about  this.  It's  rather  seri- 
ous, mother."  He  went  out  of  the  room  at  once,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Mrs.  Conway  found  her- 
self in  some  disquietude  at  the  prospect  of  a  discus- 
sion with  one  of  her  children. 

Fred  fortunately  found  some  humour  in  the  con- 
templation of  Mr.  Blumenthal  under  the  conditions  re- 
vealed to  him,  which  eased  the  awkwardness,  though  in 
the  main  he  was  inclined  to  take  the  matter  more  seri- 
ously than  his  father. 

"  I  could  have  told  you,  if  you'd  asked  me,"  he  said, 
"  that  he  was  a  difficult  customer,  mother.  He's  a 
jolly  obstinate  one,  too.  If  he's  got  it  into  his  head 
that  Freda  isn't  doing  as  well  for  herself  as  he  wants 
her  to,  he  won't  make  any  bones  about  bringing  our 
engagement  to  an  end." 

"  That,  I  should  think,  would  be  a  matter  for  Freda 
herself,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  If  Freda  is  the  girl  I 
have  always  taken  her  to  be,  and  I  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  she  is  not,  in  spite  of  the  unaccountable  way 
in  which  her  father  has  behaved,  she  will  not  allow  him 
to  bring  the  engagement  to  an  end." 

"  She  isn't  of  age  yet,"  said  Fred.  "  Besides,  al- 
though I'm  not  marrying  her  for  her  money,  it  would 
hardly  be  fair  on  her  to  cut  her  off  from  it.  7  can't 
give  her  what  she  ought  to  have  in  that  way;  I  wish 
I  could.  I  can't  marry  her  on  the  four  hundred  a 


AN   OFFER  259 

year  Uncle  Mark  is  going  to  give  me,  and  I  don't  know 
when  I  shall  have  any  more.  It  would  mean  asking 
her  to  wait  indefinitely." 

"  The  man  is  quite  right,"  said  Sydney,  "  in  saying 
that  we  can't  afford  to  live  at  Watermeads  much 
longer.  When  you  get  another  point  of  view  like  that, 
it  brings  things  home  to  you.  I'm  not  sure  that  it 
wouldn't  be  the  best  thing  to  accept  his  offer,  and  make 
the  change  now,  once  for  all." 

"  Pray  do  not  talk  in  that  absurd  way,  Sydney," 
said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  I  may  have  made  a  mistake  in 
trying  to  discuss  affairs  with  such  a  man — pray  how 
could  I  know  what  he  would  turn  out  to  be? — but 
there  is  no  necessity  to  show  offence  with  me  by  talk- 
ing nonsense  at  me." 

"  He  probably  thinks,"  said  Sydney,  "  that  Water- 
meads  is  heavily  mortgaged.  I  suppose  most  people 
would  have  raised  mortgages  before  they  began  to 
make  the  economies  that  we  have  been  making  for 
years  past.  I  haven't  done  it  because  I've  always  rec- 
ognised that  if  things  didn't  go  better,  and  we  had  to 
sell  the  place,  we  should  have  to  have  something  to 
live  on.  I'm  afraid  you  must  have  given  him  the  idea 
that  things  are  worse  than  they  really  are,  mother. 
However,  it's  no  use  talking  of  that  now.  The  mis- 
chief's done,  and  we  had  better  make  up  our  minds 
how  we  are  going  to  mend  it." 

"  Certainly  not  by  forsaking  our  home  just  when 
affairs  seem  to  have  taken  a  turn  for  the  better,"  said 
Mrs.  Conway ;  "  and  as  for  the  mischief  that  you  say 
has  been  done,  Sydney,  I  should  wish  to  remind  you 
that  you  have  not  heard  all  that  passed  between  Mr. 


260  WATERMEADS 

Blumenthal  and  myself.  If  you  had  you  would  not  be 
so  ready  with  your  blame  for  my  having  made  an  ef- 
fort— abortive,  it  is  unfortunately  true,  but  still  an 
effort — to  put  matters  on  a  satisfactory  basis  for  all 
concerned.  However,  that  is  not  the  point.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  Fred  would  be  the  very  last  one  to 
wish  that  himself  and  his  wife  should  take  the  place 
of  his  father  and  mother." 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  like  that  at  all,"  said  Fred  quickly, 
"  and  I  don't  think  Freda  would  like  it  either." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  his  father  kindly,  "  I  know 
very  well  how  you'd  be  likely  to  feel  about  it.  But  I 
think  some  arrangement  might  be  come  to  with  Blu- 
menthal that  would  not  make  it  seem  odd  that  you 
should  come  and  live  here.  After  all,  lots  of  people 
in  our  position  have  to  let  their  houses  because  they 
can't  afford  to  live  in  them.  We  ought  to  have  let 
Watermeads  long  ago,  before  it  got  too  dilapidated 
for  anybody  to  take.  What  we  might  arrange  would 
be  simply  to  let  it  to  Fred,  whom  we  would  rather  have 
here  than  anybody.  The  rent  would  be  low,  because 
a  lot  of  money  would  have  to  be  spent  on  putting  it 
into  order,  but  we  should  get  rid  of  the  burden  of  it, 
and  should  be  much  more  comfortable  in  a  smaller 
house.  The  property  still  brings  in  something — in 
fact,  enough  for  us  to  live  on,  better  than  we  live  now." 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  that  the  whole  sug- 
gestion is  preposterous ;  and  if  you  had  heard  the  way 
in  which  it  was  made " 

"  It  doesn't  much  matter  how  it  was  made,  mother," 
said  Sydney.  "  Mr.  Blumenthal  is  a  business  man  and 
probably  made  his  business  proposition  in  his  usual 


AN   OFFER  261 

way.  It  isn't  a  bad  one,  you  know — for  us,  and  we 
ought  to  be  able  to  come  to  terms  with  him  when  he 
hears  that  there's  no  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  very 
little  on  the  land.  What  I  should  like  to  do  would 
be  to  take  over  the  Manor  Farm.  It  would  be  a  de- 
lightful house  to  live  in  if  we  could  raise  some  money 
to  make  a  few  alterations." 

"  What  I  was  prepared  to  suggest  to  Mr.  Blumen- 
thal,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  was  that  Fred  and  Freda 
should  live  at  the  Manor  Farm,  which  Mr.  Blumenthal 
should  do  up  for  them,  and  that  money  should  be  pro- 
vided to  put  the  estate  upon  a  paying  basis." 

Sydney  stared  at  her,  and  then  laughed  rather  rue- 
fully. "  Really,  mother !  "  he  said.  "  I  know  you  al- 
ways act  for  the  best,  but  don't  you  think  that  I 
might  have  been  consulted  before  these  negotiations 
were  entered  into?  Well,  I  won't  ask  for  an  answer 
to  the  question.  I'm  sure  that  you  won't  act  in  that 
way  again,  and  that's  all  that  really  matters  now.  I 
think  I  will  get  into  communication  with  Mr.  Blu- 
menthal, as  he  suggests.  I'm  not  sure  you  haven't  done 
as  well  for  us  as  if  you  had  had  your  own  way.  I'm 
tired  of  the  struggle.  It  will  be  a  happy  day  for  me 
when  Fred  can  take  it  on  with  a  better  chance  of  suc- 
cess than  I  have  ever  had.  Dear  old  boy,  I  shall  take 
just  as  much  pleasure  in  the  revival  of  Watermeads  for 
you,  as  I  should  for  myself.  And  if  we  can  manage 
it  we  shall  be  living  next  door,  so  to  speak,  and  shall 
share  in  all  the  fun  that  seeing  the  place  lift  up  its 
head  again  will  bring.  So  I  say,  Hurrah  for  Fred 
and  Freda  at  Watermeads,  and  the  rest  of  us  living 
happily  at  Manor  Farm." 


262  WATERMEADS 

"  As  usual,  Sydney,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  you  are 
ready  to  let  a  new  idea  run  away  with  you.  No  doubt 
it  would  provide  you  with  amusement  for  the  time  be- 
ing to  make  a  complete  change,  but 

"  If  I  could  raise  a  thousand  pounds,"  said  Syd- 
ney, "  I  would  make  such  a  house  of  Manor  Farm  as 
anybody  in  the  world  would  be  pleased  to  live  in.  It 
would  be  much  more  than  big  enough  for  us,  and  with 
the  income  we  should  have  we  should  be  able  to  live 
like  other  people  and  see  our  friends.  Oh,  the  relief 
of  having  tl.2  burden  removed,  and  being  able  to  en- 
joy life  without  that  shadow  always  in  the  background 
on  one's  mind !  It  has  been  just  as  heavy  on  you  as 
on  me,  mother.  You've  borne  your  part.  You'd  be 
more  yourself  living  in  a  charming  house  like  that  with 
everything  nice  about  you  than  struggling  on  in  a  cor- 
ner of  this  one.  Let's  make  up  our  minds  to  it,  I 
say.  Nothing  else  would  be  altered.  We  should  be 
what  we've  always  been  here,  only  more  able  to  play 
the  part  we  used  to  play  in  the  old  days." 

"  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  Freda  and  I  should 
do  with  a  house  like  Watermeads,"  said  Fred.  "  I'd 
much  rather  live  at  Manor  Farm  myself,  and  have  you 
here,  Dad,  if  we  could  bring  Blumenthal  to  see  it." 

"  And  pray  is  not  that  precisely  what  I  ventured 
to  suggest  myself?"  enquired  Mrs.  Conway, — "and 
was  treated  with  scorn  for  the  suggestion." 

"  Blumenthal  wouldn't  see  it,"  said  Sydney.  "  Why 
should  he?  I  wouldn't  take  it  from  him  either.  Why 
should  I?  I  don't  want  him  to  do  anything  for  me; 
whatever  he  likes  to  do  for  his  daughter — that's 
another  thing.  If  what  he  does  happens  to  suit  me, 


AN  OFFER  263 

so  much  the  better.  And  this  does  suit  me,  better  than 
anything  I  could  have  imagined.  We  could  make  a 
glorious  thing  of  the  garden  at  Manor  Farm.  I'd  al- 
most rather  work  at  that  than  at  this  garden ;  it's 
more  compassable.  As  for  furnishing,  I  should  bar- 
gain that  we  took  what  we  wanted  -from  here.  It  would 
hardly  be  missed,  and  we  shouldn't  take  the  very  best 
things.  If  it  comes  to  be  arranged  I  should  want  to 
give  it  a  proper  start.  The  house  wants  a  good  deal 
of  adapting.  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  we  could 
sell  that  we  don't  particularly  want — the  very  last 
sale  of  anything  out  of  Watermeads  it  would  be." 

Mrs.  Conway  had  been  thinking.  A  phrase  of  her 
husband's  had  struck  her.  If  they  left  Watermeads 
for  Manor  Farm  they  would  still  be  the  same  as  they 
had  always  been.  That  was  so,  of  course.  And  she 
understood  that  it  was  not  proposed  to  part  with  the 
property,  but  only  to  let  the  house,  as  it  were.  Freda 
was  amenable,  and  obviously  devoted  to  herself.  She 
would  not  want  to  arrogate  to  herself  a  position  that 
rightly  belonged  to  her  mother-in-law,  even  if  she  did 
live  in  the  great  house.  In  fact,  it  would  be  natural 
that  she  should  lean  on  her  for  advice  and  support, 
in  a  situation  in  which  she  would  not  at  first  find 
herself  at  ease.  Mrs.  Conway  saw  herself  almost  as 
much  at  the  head  of  affairs  at  Watermeads,  with 
Freda  nominal  mistress  there,  as  she  was  now,  and 
under  conditions  that  would  give  more  scope  for  her 
genius  than  she  had  hitherto  enjoyed. 

"  For  myself,"  she  said,  "  there  would  be  nothing 
derogatory  in  leaving  Watermeads  itself  for  a  house 
that  was  at  one  time  the  Dower  House.  Under  cer- 


264  WATERMEADS 

tain  circumstances,  which  it  would  be  painful  to  name, 
it  would  be  the  natural  place  for  me  to  live  in.  If  I 
had  only  myself  to  think  of,  I  think  I  should  prefer 
it;  it  is  simply  because  I  do  not  think  only  of  myself 
that  I  should  wish  the  idea  more  closely  examined  be- 
fore it  is  seized  hold  of  as  if  it  were  the  one  thing 
that  we  had  always  desired  to  complete  our  happiness. 
That  is  the  mistake  that  is  always  being  made.  An 
idea  is  new;  therefore  that  idea  is  delightful.  Novelty, 
novelty,  novelty.  I  sometimes  think " 

"  There's  a  lot  in  what  you  say,  mother,"  said  Syd- 
ney with  a  laugh.  "  One  does  welcome  change,  espe- 
cially when  almost  any  change  one  could  have  would  be 
for  the  better.  But  in  this  case  there's  no  doubt  about 
it  being  for  the  better.  We  shall  be  able  to  live  within 
our  income  and  enjoy  life.  That  puts  it  in  a  nut- 
shell. All  the  anxieties  will  be  swept  away,  and  that's 
enough  to  make  one  sing  for  joy." 

"  You  talked  just  now  about  selling  something  to 
provide  money  for  alterations  at  Manor  Farm,"  said 
Mrs.  Conway.  "  I  am  absolutely  against  these  sales, 
as  I  have  often  said.  Beautiful  things  disappear,  and 
in  the  long  run  the  money  for  which  they  are  sold  dis- 
appears too.  But  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that 
another  picture  should  be  sold — I  should  stipulate 
that  it  should  be  the  last — Mr.  Blumenthal  has  taken 
a  fancy  to  the  Holbein,  and  offers  to  buy  it  for  a 
thousand  pounds." 

By  the  end  of  the  day  Mrs.  Conway  had  more  than 
recovered  her  equanimity.  She  had  been  derided,  she 
had  been  blamed.  What  she  had  done  with  the  sole 
purpose  of  helping  others,  while  obliterating  all  con- 


AN   OFFER  265 

siderations  of  self,  had  been  treated  as  if  she,  of  all 
people,  were  least  capable  of  devising  a  workable 
scheme,  and  carrying  it  through.  And  yet,  look  at 
the  result!  Her  husband  had  been  all  the  evening 
more  light-hearted  and  younger  in  appearance  and 
manner,  than  she  had  seen  him  for  a  long  time.  Her 
son  was  to  be  put  into  a  position  which,  but  for  her, 
he  would  not  have  filled  for  years  to  come.  Her  other 
children  were  delighted  with  the  changes  that  were 
coming.  She  breathed  heavily,  as  she  thought  it  all 
over.  For  herself,  of  course,  it  was  the  end  of  all 
things.  Her  husband,  with  his  light  careless  nature, 
might  take  pleasure  in  his  new  toy,  and  forget  all  that 
his  renunciation  meant;  for  her  that  was  impossible. 
Well,  she  must  go  on  to  the  end,  strong  but  belittled. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  her  worth  would  be  known. 


CHAPTER   XX 

FRED  IS  DISTURBED 

LADY  KIEBY  had  invited  all  the  young  people  of  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  to  dine  and  dance  at  Prittle- 
well  House.  She  had  given  only  three  days'  notice, 
but  there  were  few  refusals,  and  the  company  she 
managed  to  collect  stretched  the  capacity  of  her  din- 
ing-room to  the  utmost,  and  gave  her  ball-room  the 
effect  of  being  well-filled,  while  yet  leaving  comforta- 
ble room  for  everybody  to  dance. 

Jack  Kirby  arrived  at  Prittlewell  from  Cowes,  just 
an  hour  before  dinner-time.  He  had  asked  for  this 
party,  and  it  had  been  a  matter  of  discussion  between 
his  father  and  mother  whether  the  request  had  not 
betokened  some  serious  intention  on  his  part.  Had  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  propose,  or  was  it  to  be  a  sort 
of  last  look  round  amongst  the  pretty  girls  who  would 
be  gathered  together,  so  that  he  might  judge  whether 
Rose  still  shone  above  the  rest,  and  so  make  up  his 
mind  to  take  the  plunge?  Lady  Kirby  inclined  to  the 
latter  view,  Lord  Kirby  to  the  former,  because  of  what 
Jack  had  already  said  to  him.  But  on  cross-examina- 
tion this  had  turned  out  to  be  less  definite  than  he 
had  led  his  wife  to  suppose.  Jack  had  spoken  in  high 
praise  of  Rose's  beauty.  His  father  had  told  him  that 
nothing  would  please  him  better  than  for  Jack  to 
marry  Rose.  Jack  had  said  that  he  had  a  damn  good 

266 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  267 

mind  to  do  so,  and  it  was  on  this  foundation  that  Lord 
Kirby  had  built  the  hopes  which  had  impelled  him  to 
talk  it  over  with  Sydney  Conway. 

The  party  from  Watermeads  drove  over  to  Prittle- 
well  in  the  ramshackle  old  landau  hired  from  the  Con- 
way  Arms.  The  three  girls  and  Olivia  were  inside, 
and  Fred  on  the  box.  The  almost  continuous  fine 
weather  of  the  past  three  months  had  broken  at  last, 
and  the  night  was  cold  and  damp.  Otherwise  the  car- 
riage could  have  been  left  open,  and  Fred  could  have 
talked  to  the  girls.  As  it  was,  he  was  reduced  to  a 
duologue  with  the  driver,  or  to  the  solace  of  his  own 
thoughts.  The  driver  had  a  vein  of  taciturnity,  but 
he  liked  Fred,  as  did  most  people  around  Watermeads, 
and  would  have  been  willing  to  talk  to  him  during  the 
five  mile  drive,  if  Fred  had  produced  his  usual  amia- 
ble loquacity.  But  Fred  preferred  his  own  thoughts, 
and  sat  silent  for  the  better  part  of  the  drive. 

His  thoughts,  however,  were  not  so  happily  serene 
as  might  have  been  expected  from  the  newness  of  his 
engagement  and  the  hours  of  pleasure  he  was  about 
to  enjoy  in  the  company  of  his  beloved.  In  the  first 
place  he  had  had  a  little  tiff  with  Freda,  which,  al- 
though it  had  been  brought  to  a  close  with  capitula- 
tion on  her  part,  and  a  kiss  to  follow,  still  disturbed 
him.  Freda  had  first  of  all  objected  to  driving  five 
miles  in  a  slow  hired  fly.  Why  couldn't  they  get  a 
motor  from  somewhere?  She  was  sure  her  father 
would  pay.  Fred  had  refused  this  vicarious  offer, 
with  some  dignity,  and  she  had  given  in  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  but  with  no  very  good  grace.  She 
had  objected  still  more  to  Olivia  coming  with  them, 


268  WATERMEADS 

and  Fred  had  had  hard  work  to  overcome  this  ob- 
jection. She  had  said  ugly  things  about  Olivia,  and 
about  his  always  wanting  her  to  be  everywhere  with 
them.  He  had  tried  to  reason  with  her  and  to  point 
out  how  impossible  it  was  to  tell  Olivia  that  they  could 
not  take  her  with  them,  since  neither  she  nor  Elsie  nor 
Rose  would  ever  have  thought  of  any  other  arrange- 
ment. She  had  accepted  nothing  that  he  had  said,  but 
again  had  given  way  pettishly,  and  said  she  supposed 
she  should  have  to  put  up  with  it.  Reconciliation  had 
followed,  and  Fred's  distress  at  her  unreasonableness 
had  been  somewhat  lessened  by  the  reason  she  had 
only  then  given  for  objecting  to  have  Olivia  with  them. 
If  there  had  only  been  four  of  them  he  would  have  been 
in  the  carriage  with  her.  As  it  was  she  would  have  to 
'  bore  herself  stiff '  for  a  crawl  of  nearly  an  hour.  It 
really  was  rather  hard  on  her  that  his  place  should  be 
taken  by  Olivia,  and  she  hated  to  think  of  his  sitting 
outside  getting  wet,  if  it  rained,  as  it  probably  would. 

The  sense  of  dismay  and  unhappiness  returned  to 
Fred  as  he  sat  beside  the  taciturn  driver,  and  thought 
it  all  over  again.  The  solicitude  she  had  shown  on 
his  account,  and  her  desire  to  have  him  with  her,  which 
had  made  it  easy  for  him  to  accept  her  kiss  of  rec- 
onciliation, did  not  balance  the  memory  of  her  unrea- 
sonableness, or  the  hurt  she  had  done  herself.  Why 
should  she  *  bore  herself  stiff '  in  the  company  of 
Elsie  and  Rose,  even  if  her  right  to  dislike  Olivia  for 
no  apparent  fault  were  conceded?  The  phrase  lit  up 
a  good  deal  that  had  caused  Fred  a  vague  uneasiness. 
He  remembered  now  that  neither  Elsie  nor  Rose  had 
said  anything  to  him  in  praise  of  Freda  for  some  days 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  269 

past.  She  had  once  or  twice  said  things  about  them 
which,  while  nothing  like  the  praise  she  had  been 
pleased  to  express  at  first,  had  prevented  his  think- 
ing of  her  as  having  drawn  back  in  her  liking  for 
them.  But  he  saw  now  that  the  three  girls  had  hardly 
at  all  been  alone  together  in  the  way  that  would  have 
been  natural  if  there  had  been  the  friendship  and  af- 
fection between  them  that  might  have  been  expected, 
and  that  all  three  of  them  were  surely  capable  of  evok- 
ing. Freda  had  made  a  great  friend  of  Penelope,  and 
they  seemed  always  to  have  something  to  talk  about 
together.  That  was  satisfactory,  of  course;  Penelope 
could  hardly  help  being  improved  by  her  intercourse 
with  Freda.  But  surely  her  society  ought  not  to 
count  above  that  of  Elsie  and  Rose! 

Fred  had  been  made  rather  unhappy,  too,  by  the 
obvious  pleasure  which  Freda  took  in  the  society  of 
the  young  men  who  had  come  to  Watermeads.  Giles 
Bellamy  she  had  told  him  definitely  that  she  did  not 
like,  and  he  had  not  shown  himself  in  the  least  anxious 
to  ingratiate  himself  with  her.  But  Edward  Probert 
she  had  almost  seemed  to  be  '  making  a  set  at,'  and 
it  had  only  been  her  reiterated  laughing  assurances 
to  Fred  that  it  was  only  he  whom  she  loved,  and  that 
her  friendship  with  Edward  meant  no  more  than  if 
he  had  been  Fred's  brother — as  she  now  thought 
he  would  be  some  day — that  had  allayed  definite  pangs 
of  jealousy.  With  none  other  of  the  young  men  whom 
she  had  met  had  she  acted  in  quite  that  way,  but  she 
had  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in  all  of  them,  to  be 
testing  and  trying  them,  to  wish  to  evoke  their  ad- 
miration. There  was  no  doubt  that  her  manner  was 


270  WATERMEADS 

more  lively,  and  her  satisfaction  greater,  when  she 
was  surrounded  by  young  men,  than  when  she  was 
alone  with  him  and  his  family.  Sometimes,  when  she 
had  been  gay  and  bright  in  a  crowd,  she  had  shown  an 
absolute  indifference  to  him  that  had  wounded  him 
sorely.  She  had  always  made  it  up  to  him  afterwards, 
but  it  had  left  its  mark.  It  was  as  if  the  indifference 
were  the  basis  of  her  attitude  towards  him,  and  she 
wished  to  hide  it,  but  could  not  help  it  peeping  out. 

It  was  not  possible,  however,  for  a  young  lover  in 
the  early  exaltation  of  his  acceptance  to  believe  that 
indifference  was  really  the  reward  of  his  love,  from  one 
who  still  gave  him  so  much  that  was  the  reverse  of  in- 
difference. Fred  wrenched  his  mind  away  from  these 
uneasy  speculations,  and  dwelt  upon  the  numerous 
causes  he  had  for  happiness. 

Freda  had  shown  the  liveliest  pleasure  and  interest 
in  her  father's  proposal  that  she  and  Fred  should  live 
at  Watermeads.  Even  here  there  had  been  a  drop 
in  the  cup  that  had  done  something  to  spoil  its  flavour, 
for  she  had  not  shared  his  dislike  of  the  idea  that  they 
would  seem  to  be  dispossessing  his  father  and  mother, 
nor  helped  him  to  devise  means  for  softening  the 
change  for  them.  But  as  his  father  had  shown  noth- 
ing but  exhilaration  at  the  prospect,  there  had  been 
justification  for  her,  and  it  was  Sydney  who  had 
entered  most  readily  into  her  plans  for  making  Water- 
meads  what  she  would  like  it  to  be.  Freda  had  shown 
far  greater  interest  in  the  house  and  all  its  surround- 
ings since  it  had  presented  itself  to  her  as  her  own 
immediate  home,  and  they  had  spent  happy  hours  in 
plannings  and  anticipations.  Surely  Fred  was  the 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  271 

most  fortunate  of  men,  in  the  prize  he  had  secured, 
and  the  rich  shrine  he  would  have  in  which  to  house 
it. 

And  yet  he  was  not  entirely  happy  even  in  this 
lucky  aspect  of  his  lot.  Watermeads  meant  very 
much  to  him.  Before  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Freda 
it  had  been  the  one  centre  of  his  hopes  for  the  future. 
He  was  to  work  and  deny  himself,  and  some  day  he 
would  get  his  great  reward  in  seeing  Watermeads  re- 
stored to  itself,  and  he  and  his  family  happy  and  con- 
tented in  its  complete  possession. 

But  the  reward  was  coming  without  his  having  done 
anything  to  deserve  it.  It  was  falling  to  him  too  soon 
and  too  easily.  The  fact  that  it  was  being  presented 
to  him  by  a  man  whom,  but  for  his  relationship  to 
Freda,  he  would  have  rather  disliked,  and  more  than  a 
little  despised,  had  no  great  weight  with  him,  although 
in  the  negotiations  that  had  already  been  opened  up 
Mr.  Blumenthal  had  not  shown  himself  particularly 
anxious  to  spare  the  susceptibilities  of  Fred  and  his 
parents  What  was  being  given  was  being  given  to 
Freda,  and  he  and  Freda  were  one.  It  ought  to  have 
been  an  added  pleasure  to  him  to  take  back  Water- 
meads  from  Freda's  hands. 

Why,  then,  wasn't  it?  Surely  not  because  Freda 
had  shown  in  a  hundred  little  ways,  even  when  she 
had  been  most  delightfully  in  sympathy  with  him 
over  what  they  were  going  to  do  together,  how  well 
aware  she  was  that  she  was  the  source  from  which  it 
was  all  to  come!  And  yet  there  was  no  other  reason 
that  he  could  fix  upon  for  his  inability  to  feel  the  full 
thrill  of  pleasure  at  what  lay  before  him.  He  would 


272  WATERMEADS 

have  liked  to  give  Watermeads  to  her,  and  she  never 
let  him  forget  that  she  was  giving  it  to  him. 

Fred  pulled  himself  back  from  the  uncomfortable 
thoughts  that  were  taking  hold  of  him.  He  had  so 
much  to  make  him  happy,  and  the  dear  girl  was  so 
sweet  to  him  that  it  would  be  the  basest  ingratitude  to 
let  his  mind  dwell  upon  the  few  things  that  had  hurt 
and  disturbed  him.  Absurd,  too,  when  they  were  go- 
ing to  a  long  evening  of  pleasure  together.  His  pulse 
quickened  as  he  thought  of  dancing  with  Freda.  He 
had  not  danced  with  her  since  he  had  been  so  foolishly 
jealous,  and  then  only  once.  It  would  be  very  differ- 
ent tonight.  There  would  be  no  Lord  Mayor's  son  to 
cross  his  path,  and  although  he  did  not  propose  to 
monopolise  Freda  altogether,  nobody  could  object  to 
his  taking  about  half  of  her  dances — least  of  all  Freda 
herself,  under  the  circumstances. 

There  was  no  drop  in  Fred's  recovered  spirits  dur- 
ing the  dinner  which  preceded  the  dance.  Lord  Kirby 
took  in  Freda,  and  Fred  sat  next  to  her.  Rose,  who 
had  been  taken  in  by  Jack,  was  on  Lord  Kirby 's  left, 
and  he  made  much  of  her,  and  much  of  Freda  also. 
Freda  was  more  sparkling  and  gay  than  Fred  had  ever 
seen  her,  and  he  was  immensely  proud  of  the  effect  she 
was  making  on  those  about  her.  It  was  Jack  who 
seemed  to  have  most  to  do  with  arousing  the  high 
spirits  in  her.  With  his  cheery  self-assurance  and 
readiness  to  get  on  instant  terms  of  familiarity  with 
anyone  whom  he  was  inclined  to  like,  he  put  matters 
on  a  basis  of  chaff,  not  over  subtle,  about  Freda's 
engagement,  which  drew  a  response  from  her  that 
showed  her  more  ready  with  her  tongue  than  Fred  had 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  273 

ever  known  her  in  general  company.  Lord  Kirby 
roared  with  delighted  laughter  at  her  sallies,  and  oc- 
casionally sought  to  give  them  a  personal  application 
to  Rose,  who,  however,  sat  rather  silent,  smiling  but 
not  laughing,  and  appearing  to  wonder  rather  at  the 
new  light  in  which  Freda  was  showing  herself.  She 
looked  at  her  a  good  deal,  and  sometimes  at  Fred,  to 
see  how  he  was  taking  the  constant  interchange  of  fa- 
miliar banter  with  another  man.  But  Fred  kept  a 
pleased  face,  and  occasionally  joined  in  the  chaff  him- 
self. His  complaisance  may  have  been  partly  ac- 
counted for  by  the  fact  that  Freda  was  assiduous  in 
finding  his  hand  under  cover  of  the  table-cloth  when- 
ever opportunity  offered,  and  pressing  it. 

Dancing  began  immediately  after  dinner,  with  the 
shortest  possible  interval  for  the  cigarettes  and  coffee 
for  the  men.  With  the  exception  of  the  host,  they  were 
all  under  thirty,  and  the  pleasures  of  the  table  were 
less  to  them  than  the  pleasures  of  the  floor.  The  din- 
ner time  conversation,  with  Jack  and  Freda  as  its 
chief  performers,  had  reached  such  a  pitch  that  it  was 
quite  in  accordance  with  its  spirit  that  Jack  should 
put  in  a  bold  claim  for  the  first  dance  with  Freda.  He 
affected  great  disappointment  when  she  informed  him 
that  of  course  she  was  going  to  dance  it  with  Fred, 
adding  that  for  pure  impudence  some  people  were  hard 
to  beat.  He  then  offered  himself  to  Rose,  but  she  had 
already  been  engaged  by  Giles  Bellamy,  and  without 
showing  any  keen  signs  of  disappointment  he  ranged 
round  in  search  of  a  partner,  beginning  with  the  pret- 
tiest girl  he  could  find  after  those  two,  and  taking  them 
in  descending  scale  of  looks  until  he  found  one  disen- 


274  WATERMEADS 

gaged,  when  he  proceeded  to  make  himself  just  as 
agreeable  to  her  as  if  she  had  headed  the  list. 

The  ball  went  with  a  swing,  and  Freda  was  the 
queen  of  it.  She  might  have  engaged  herself  three 
deep  for  every  dance,  if  she  had  wished,  but  while  she 
was  prodigal  of  her  favours  to  all  who  came  near  her, 
she  still  preserved  herself  for  the  claims  that  Fred 
made  upon  her,  and  kept  him  happy  and  admiring,  not 
only  of  her  but  of  the  brilliant  success  she  was  making. 
She  refused  to  sit  out  any  dances  with  him,  but  he  was 
hardly  in  a  mood  to  press  the  request,  for  he  enjoyed 
this  new  aspect  of  Freda,  laughing  and  excited  and 
brilliant  in  a  crowd,  and,  since  she  made  it  plain  to 
him  that  he  and  he  alone  was  the  ultimate  source  of 
all  her  pleasure,  the  more  private  assurance  of  that 
fact  could  wait  for  a  quieter  time. 

But  after  supper,  which  she  had  eaten  in  his  com- 
pany, when  the  ball  was  nearing  its  end,  Fred  received 
a  wound  which,  beginning  with  a  mild  uneasiness,  grew 
into  something  that  made  him  angry  as  well  as  hurt, 
and  it  was  all  Freda  could  do  by  the  time  the  last 
chord  was  struck  by  the  band,  and  the  last  cups  of 
soup  were  consumed  by  the  guests,  to  bring  him  round 
to  forgiveness  of  her. 

Fred  was  dancing  with  Olivia,  Freda,  for  perhaps 
the  third  time,  with  Jack  Kirby.  After  a  few  turns, 
Fred,  whose  eyes  were  always  in  search  of  Freda  when 
he  was  not  dancing  with  her,  missed  her  and  her  part- 
ner. They  must  have  gone  off  to  sit  out  somewhere, 
and  as  Freda  had  refused  to  sit  out  any  part  of  any 
dance  with  him  it  struck  him  as  *  just  a  bit  thick,'  and 
led  him  to  wonder  whether  the  very  rapid  intimacy 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  275 

that  had  come  about  between  Jack  and  Freda  was 
after  all  quite  so  harmless  in  its  bearings  upon  him- 
self as  he  had  thought. 

At  the  end  of  the  dance,  the  errant  couple  not  hav- 
ing reappeared,  he  set  out  on  a  search  for  them  with 
Olivia  at  his  side.  His  discomfort  of  mind  was  so  evi- 
dent that  she  could  hardly  affect  not  to  notice  it,  and 
she  said  to  him  as  they  left  the  ball-room :  "  Let  us 
go  and  find  Freda.  We  can  all  four  have  a  talk  to- 
gether." 

He  was  grateful  to  her,  and  they  went  through  the 
rooms  into  which  other  couples  were  dispersing  them- 
selves, but  without  finding  the  one  they  were  in  search 
of. 

Fred  *  cut '  his  next  dance,  when  it  was  made  pain- 
fully evident,  by  Freda's  indignant  partner  coming  up 
to  him  and  asking  him  where  she  was,  that  she  also 
was  intending  to  cut  it,  and  made  a  further  search  on 
his  own  account.  Nearly  everybody  was  dancing,  and 
most  of  the  rooms  were  empty.  He  ventured  up  the 
great  staircase,  but  the  company  was  not  large  enough 
to  overflow  the  house,  and  unless  Jack  had  deliberately 
taken  Freda  off  to  a  room  not  in  public  use,  which 
Fred  hardly  thought  even  he  would  have  done,  it  was 
not  likely  that  he  would  find  them  upstairs.  He  went 
into  the  conservatory,  and  opened  a  door  leading  into 
the  garden.  The  night  was  cold  and  damp,  but  it  was 
not  raining,  and  it  was  just  possible  that  they  might 
have  gone  out. 

A  paved  path  ran  along  the  wall  of  the  house,  and 
there  were  garden  seats  on  it,  but  they  were  empty. 
Fred  walked  a  little  way  towards  spaces  not  lit  up  by 


276  WATERMEADS 

the  windows  of  the  house,  and  called  Freda's  name, 
but  there  was  no  answer. 

He  went  through  the  rooms  again  and  returned  to 
the  ball-room  just  as  the  last  strains  of  a  valse  were 
being  played.  There  were  Jack  and  Freda  dancing 
vigorously,  and,  to  judge  by  their  faces,  in  a  high 
state  of  satisfaction  with  one  another.  Fred  felt 
baulked  and  furious,  and  his  feelings  towards  Jack 
were  murderous. 

They  came  up  to  him  smiling  all  over,  and  he  made 
a  gallant  effort  to  smooth  the  frown  from  his  face. 
Whatever  he  was  feeling,  he  could  not  make  a  scene 
there,  and  then. 

They  had  intended  to  have  a  little  lark  with  him,  it 
appeared.  They  had  been  on  the  terrace  when  he  had 
come  out  and  called,  and  had  given  him  the  slip,  enter- 
ing the  house  by  another  door.  When  Jack  Kirby 
found  that  he  was  not  inclined  to  take  this  particular 
little  joke  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  said  to  have 
been  devised,  he  slipped  off  with  a  light  word,  and  left 
Freda  to  cope  with  Fred. 

Freda  then  consented  to  sit  out  a  dance  with  him, 
and  they  had  it  out  together.  She  was  patient  and 
kind,  but  pained  at  his  ill-humour  with  her.  She  had 
meant  no  harm  at  all,  but  wouldn't  have  done  what  she 
had  if  she  had  known  that  he  would  take  it  like  that. 
Surely  he  must  see  that  it  was  only  meant  for  fun,  or 
how  could  they  have  laughed  about  it  as  they  had 
when  he  had  caught  them?  And  surely  he  could  trust 
her!  She  knew  how  much  he  loved  her,  but  it  didn't 
look  like  the  right  sort  of  love  if  he  couldn't  trust  her 
out  of  his  sight. 


FRED  IS  DISTURBED  277 

The  poor  badgered  unhappy  young  man  felt  the 
ground  slipping  away  from  him.  It  seemed  unreason- 
able still  to  be  angry  with  her,  and  yet  he  could  not 
feel  satisfied,  in  spite  of  her  quiet  show  of  reason.  She 
had  sat  out  nearly  the  whole  of  two  dances  with  Jack 
Kirby,  and  the  interval  between  them,  and  yet  she  had 
told  him  that  she  was  going  to  dance  to  every  bar  of 
the  music,  and  until  now  had  refused  to  sit  out  with 
him  at  all. 

"  Well,  I  did  suddenly  feel  a  little  tired  and  hot," 
she  said,  "  and  when  he  said  we  would  go  and  get  cool, 
I  said  yes,  without  thinking." 

"  But  why  sit  out  the  whole  of  the  next 
dance,  too,  when  you  were  engaged  to  somebody 
else?" 

"  Only  to  that  silly  little  clergyman's  son,  who  had 
poked  himself  in.  I  didn't  want  to  dance  with  him, 
and  had  been  meaning  to  ask  you  to  rescue  me.  Really, 
Freddy  dear,  I  do  think  you  are  unreasonable.  You 
didn't  mind  my  having  heaps  of  fun  with  Jack  at  din- 
ner  " 

"  You  call  him  *  Jack  '  already,  do  you  ?  And  you 
met  him  for  the  first  time  an  hour  or  two  ago !  "  All 
Fred's  jealousy  surged  up  in  him  again,  and  he  would 
willingly  have  wrung  Jack  Kirby's  neck  if  opportunity 
had  offered  at  the  moment. 

Freda  laughed.  "  That  slipped  out,"  she  said. 
"  Everybody  calls  him  Jack  at  Watermeads." 

"  Did  you  call  him  Jack  when  you  were  with  him?  " 

"  Don't  be  so  absurd,  Freddy.     Of  course  I  didn't." 

"Did  he  call  you  Freda?" 

"  I  shan't  answer  such  questions  as  that." 


278  WATERMEADS 

"  Please  answer  this  one.  Did  he  call  you  by  your 
Christian  name?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  did  you  talk  about  all  that  time?  " 

Freda  appeared  to  be  struggling  with  her  temper, 
which  had  so  far  been  under  perfect  control.  Her 
mouth  wore  its  ugly  look,  and  her  eyes  were  frowning. 
But  when  she  spoke  it  was  with  the  same  persuasive  air 
as  before.  "  Well,  we  talked  about  you,  chiefly,"  she 
said.  "  You  could  have  listened  to  every  word  we  said, 
and  if  you  had,  you  couldn't  have  helped  being  pleased. 
I  wish  you  would  leave  off  being  angry,  Freddy.  It 
spoils  the  whole  evening,  and  I  have  been  enjoying  my- 
self so  much." 

Fred  left  off  being  angry  by  and  by,  and  even  en- 
joyed his  drive  home,  when  he  managed  to  squeeze 
into  the  carriage  by  the  side  of  Freda,  who  showed 
great  sweetness  towards  him.  But  he  was  still  sore 
within  him,  and  all  through  what  remained  of  the  night, 
as  he  struggled  with  himself  to  get  a  right  view  of 
what  had  happened,  and  what  should  be  his  attitude 
towards  it,  cold  waves  of  doubt  and  dismay  came  surg- 
ing over  him,  and  Freda's  sweetness,  now  that  he  was 
removed  from  personal  touch  with  it,  hardly  made 
headway  against  the  flood. 

What  his  thoughts  would  have  been,  if  he  had  ac- 
tually overheard  the  conversation  which  she  had  told 
him  would  have  pleased  him  so  much,  may  be  judged  by 
the  repetition  of  that  conversation. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

IN  JACK'S  ROOM 

"  I  SAY,  it's  precious  hot  in  here,  and  I've  been  danc- 
ing all  the  time,  like  a  marionette.  So  have  you.  Let's 
go  out  and  get  cool  somewhere." 

Thus  far  Freda  had  told  the  truth  about  herself  and 
Jack  Kirby.  What  followed  had  not  been  exactly  in 
accordance  with  her  statements  to  Fred,  though  it  had 
touched  them  at  certain  points. 

"  Well,  I  told  Fred  that  I  was  going  to  dance  all  the 
time,"  she  said,  "  and  shouldn't  sit  out  at  all.  But  it 
is  awfully  hot." 

Jack  left  off  dancing  at  once,  and  led  her  away  with 
decision.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "  Fred  won't  mind. 
Besides,  you'll  have  lots  of  time  to  obey  him  in.  Bet- 
ter show  your  independence  a  little  while  you've  got 
the  opportunity." 

Freda  laughed.  "  I  do  pretty  well  what  I  like,"  she 
said.  "  It's  just  as  well  to  begin  as  you  mean  to  go 
on." 

Jack  did  not  respond  to  this  speech,  with  his  usual 
quickness  of  repartee.  He  was  leading  her  quickly 
down  a  long  corridor,  past  the  open  doors  of  the 
rooms  which  were  being  used  between  the  dances.  He 
opened  a  door  at  the  end.  "  Now,  we'll  have  a  com- 
fortable little  talk,"  he  said,  as  they  entered  the  room. 
"  Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  get  you  a  drink  ?  " 

It  was  his  own  room  that  he  had  brought  her  to,  as 
279 


280  WATERMEADS 

was  evident  from  its  furniture  and  decorations.  On 
the  walls  were  school  and  college  photographic  groups, 
with  various  other  trophies  of  sport  and  pleasure  such 
as  a  young  man  likes  to  surround  himself  with.  There 
were  a  good  many  flowers  in  the  room,  which,  however, 
did  not  look  as  if  that  sort  of  embellishment  was  cus- 
tomary to  it.  Possibly  it  had  been  intended  to  use  it 
during  this  evening,  with  the  rest ;  but  its  door  had  re- 
mained closed,  and  no-one  had  as  yet  entered  it. 

Freda  looked  round  her  in  apparent  surprise.  "  No, 
I  don't  want  anything  to  drink,  thank  you,"  she  said. 
"  But  why  have  we  come  here?  This  isn't  one  of  the 
sitting  out  rooms,  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  my  own  room,"  said  Jack,  with  a  glance  at 
her  face.  "  It's  for  me  and  my  particular  pals.  I 
had  it  rigged  up,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  let  the  regular 
horde  in.  Sit  you  down.  It's  not  a  bad  room,  is  it? 
I've  got  all  my  childhood's  treasures  here.  My  first 
tooth  is  knocking  about  somewhere.  This  is  my  Eton 
*  burry.'  These  are  the  pads  I  got  beagling  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  say,  I've  got  a  Cambridge  group  with  Fred 
in  it  somewhere.  I  think  it's  in  a  book.  Would  you 
like  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  said  Freda,  seating  herself  on  the 
sofa  that  had  been  carelessly  indicated  to  her.  Al- 
though she  had  glanced  at  the  door,  which  remained 
open,  during  the  progress  of  Jack's  somewhat  voluble 
speech,  she  had  apparently  decided  to  accept  the  situa- 
tion without  comment. 

He  took  an  album  from  a  table  and  showed  her  a 
photograph.  "  I  think  I'll  shut  the  door  and  leave  the 
window  open,"  he  said.  "  There's  a  bit  of  a  draught." 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  281 

Freda  looked  up  quickly  as  he  crossed  the  room, 
but  when  he  had  shut  the  door  and  turned  to- 
wards her  again  she  was  looking  at  the  photograph 
with  interest,  and  did  not  seem  to  have  noticed  his 
remark. 

"  Dear  old  Fred !  "  she  said.  "  I  must  tell  him  that 
you  have  shown  me  this.  I  don't  think  he  has  it.  Are 
there  any  more  of  him  ?  " 

She  turned  over  the  pages.  There  were  no  more 
groups  that  included  Fred,  who  had  not  adorned  the 
aristocratic  circle  in  which  Jack  Kirby  had  moved  at 
Cambridge.  There  were  a  good  many  handles  to  the 
names  written  under  the  photographs,  and  Freda 
showed  some  interest  in  the  young  men  thus  indicated, 
and  tracked  them  down  from  one  group  to  another, 
until  Jack  suddenly  took  the  book  away  from  her.  "  I 
say,"  he  said,  "  Fred  wouldn't  like  you  to  be  looking 
out  for  all  the  good-looking  fellows,  you  know.  You 
must  keep  your  admiration  for  him,  but  I  don't  mind 
you  giving  a  little  to  his  intimate  friends.  You've 
never  said  how  nice  /  look.  Now  I'm  going  to  remove 
temptation  out  of  your  way." 

She  allowed  him  to  take  the  album  from  her  knee, 
and  leant  back  against  the  cushions  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa  as  he  put  it  back  upon  the  table.  "  How 
close  may  I  come  ?  "  he  asked  her  with  a  grin. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  sit  in  the  other  corner,"  she 
said  primly. 

He  plumped  himself  down  instantly.  "  Perhaps  I 
might  come  a  bit  nearer  if  I  feel  cold,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
quite  safe,  you  know.  I'm  a  tremendous  fellow  for  re- 
specting other  people's  property." 


282  WATERMEADS 

"  Yes,  I  should  hope  so.  Besides,  you're  somebody 
else's  property  yourself,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Oh,  I  say !    What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only  little  birds  have  been  whisper- 
ing. And  I've  got  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  know." 

"  Nobody  knows  that  better  than  I  do.  They're  a 
pair  of  the  prettiest  optics  I've  ever  seen.  In  fact, 
they  were  the  first  thing  I  noticed  about  you." 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  But  you  mustn't  say  such 
things  about  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  know  why  perfectly  well.  At  least,  I  don't 
mind  you're  saying  them  about  me,  as  long  as  you 
don't  say  them  to  me." 

"  But  that  wouldn't  be  honest,  would  it  ?  Whatever 
else  I  am,  I'm  dead  honest.  I  say,  are  you  frightfully 
in  love  with  Fred?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  he's  worth  it?  " 

*'  I  think  he's  a  capital  fellow.  Jolly  lucky  one, 
too." 

"  Poor  Freddy !  I'm  afraid  he  hasn't  been  very 
lucky  so  far.  I  wonder  he's  as  nice  as  he  is,  brought 
up  in  that  awful  house." 

"  What,  Watermeads  ?  Why,  it's  a  very  fine  house. 
It's  a  better  house  than  this." 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  say  so  if  you  were  to  stay  in 
it  for  any  time.  I  never  knew  that  anybody  lived  like 
they  do,  except  clerks  in  offices,  and  people  like  that." 

"  They  are  hard  up,  of  course.  But  don't  you  get 
enough  to  eat?  " 

"  Yes,  of  a  sort ;  and  they're  putting  the  best  face 
they  can  on  it  while  I'm  with  them.  Penelope  told  me 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  283 

that  it  is  quite  different  at  other  times.  And  my  maid 
has  let  in  a  lot  of  daylight.  It's  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  persuade  her  to  stay  with  me  there.  It  was  quite 
a  relief  to  dine  here  tonight,  and  see  people  who  live 
in  a  civilised  manner  again — as  I'm  used  to  at  home." 

"  Well,  I'm  jolly  glad  we  thought  of  asking  you 
then."  He  seemed  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to 
treat  her  revelations.  "  I  say,  why  are  you  going  to 
marry  Fred,  if  it's  as  bad  as  all  that  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know  how  bad  it  was.  I  knew  he  came  of 
a  good  old  family,  and  that  they  lived  in  a  big  house. 
I'd  no  idea  that  they  were  so  poor  that  they  could 
hardly  afford  to  live  there,  or  anywhere  else.  Why, 
do  you  know  how  many  servants  they  keep  for  that 
great  place?  " 

"  No,  and  I  don't  much  care.  I  know  they're  hard 
up ;  but  they're  very  nice  people  all  the  same." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  you  think  one  of  them  is." 

His  face  became  a  trifle  more  serious.  "  Well,  I  do 
like  little  Rose  a  good  deal,"  he  admitted.  "  You 
haven't  any  objection  to  that,  have  you?" 

"  Not  the  least.  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  whom  you 
like." 

"  What,  not  a  little  ?  Supposing — only  supposing, 
mind  you — that  anything  came  of  it,  we  should  be  see- 
ing a  good  deal  of  one  another,  shouldn't  we?  " 

"  Perhaps  so ;  perhaps  not.  But  nothing  will  come 
of  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  You  don't  know  what  my  in- 
tentions are.  I  haven't  told  you." 

"Your  intentions  are  one  thing;  hers  are  another. 
She  won't  have  you." 


284  WATERMEADS 

"Did  she  tell  you  that?" 

"  No,  she  didn't.  I  told  you  before  that  I  have  a 
pair  of  eyes  in  my  head." 

"  Well,  what  have  they  seen  then  ?  I  think  she  did 
like  me  a  bit.  But  I  haven't  been  here  for  nearly  a 
month.  Has  she  changed?  She  doesn't  seem  quite  so 
friendly  as  she  was." 

"  A  good  many  things  can  happen  in  a  month.  I 
don't  know  whether  she  liked  you  or  not,  a  month  ago. 
Probably  she  liked  you  quite  well  enough  to  marry  you 
if  you  had  asked  her  then.  You're  a  pretty  good 
match,  you  see,  for  a  girl  without  any  money.  But 
you're  not  the  only  match  in  the  world." 

"  Now  look  here,  you've  got  to  tell  me  what  you 
mean.  Don't  let's  have  any  more  talking  in  riddles. 
Is  there  another  fellow — that  chap  Bellamy,  for  in- 
stance? He  seems  to  be  always  hanging  round.  I 
should  hardly  have  thought  I  had  much  to  fear  from 
him." 

Freda  laughed.  "  If  you're  on  the  look-out  for  a 
rival,"  she  said,  "  you  won't  find  him  in  a  younger 
son." 

He  considered  this.  "  Her  people  would  consider 
that  sort  of  thing,  of  course,"  he  said.  "  They'd  be 
quite  right  to.  But  I'm  quite  sure  she  wouldn't,  if 
she  liked  a  fellow." 

"Oh!  wouldn't  she?" — in  a  tone  of  innocent  en- 
quiry. 

"  Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  What  a  girl  you 
are  for  talking  in  riddles !  Do  you  think  she's  the  sort 
who  would  make  up  to  a  fellow  she  didn't  care  for, 
just  because  he  was  rich  and  all  that?  " 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  285 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  think,  does  it  ?  You 
know  her  much  better  than  I  do.  Besides,  I  never  said 
anything  about  making  up  to  anybody.  Did  she  make 
up  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  just  what  she  didn't.  I've  been  rather 
making  up  to  her.  Everybody  knows  that.  But  she 
hasn't  seemed  to  mind." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  she  has.  Well,  let's  talk 
about  something  else.  You  won't  get  me  to  say  any- 
thing against  Fred's  sisters,  if  you  try  all  night." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  say  anything  against  them. 
But  who  is  it  that  you  think  is  likely  to  cut  me  out? 
Is  it  that  parson  fellow,  Probert?  They  wouldn't 
want  her  to  marry  a  country  parson,  if  they're  like 
what  you  say  they  are,  would  they?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  keep  on  making  me  look  as  if 
I  was  running  them  down.  If  they  are  like  that — 7 
never  said  they  were — -it  would  be  quite  natural  that 
they  should  get  Edward  Probert  to  the  house  as  much 
as  they  could." 

"Oh,  you  call  him  Edward,  do  you?  I  say,  that's 
hardly  fair.  You've  never  called  me  Jack.  I  think 
you  might,  you  know." 

"  Certainly  not.  If  you  think  Mr.  Probert's  just 
an  ordinary  country  parson,  you're  much  mistaken. 
He  is  the  eldest  son  of  a  baronet,  of  an  old  family,  who 
is  very  rich.  He  is  only  going  to  be  a  clergyman  until 
he  succeeds." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  him.  Who  told  you 
all  that?" 

"  Well,  you  can  guess  that  it's  been  a  good  deal 
talked  about." 


286  WATERMEADS 

"  Who  by?     Has  Rose  talked  about  it?  " 

"  I  told  you  you  wouldn't  make  me  say  anything 
against  Rose,  and  you  won't." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  she  has.  I'd  have  hardly 
thought  that  of  her.  She  isn't  like  that.  In  fact,  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  quite  in  private,  you  know,  that 
I've  been  a  bit  inclined  to  put  my  goods  in  the  shop- 
window,  just  to  give  myself  a  leg  up;  and  it  hasn't 
worked." 

Freda  kept  silence,  but  allowed  herself  a  knowing 
smile,  looking  down  at  the  fan  with  which  her  hands 
were  playing. 

"  Now  what  are  you  grinning  at  ?  "  enquired  Jack. 
"  Upon  my  word,  you're  like  a  sphinx.  Have  you  got 
anything  to  tell  me,  or  haven't  you?  " 

She  roused  herself.  "  No,  I've  nothing  to  tell  you," 
she  said.  "  At  least,  nothing  that  you  can't  find  out 
for  yourself,  or  don't  know  already.  You  said  that 
people  as  poor  as  they  are  would  naturally  be  on  the 
look-out  for  money,  and  you  wouldn't  blame  them.  I 
wouldn't  blame  them,  either;  in  fact  I  haven't,  though 
it  hasn't  been  very  pleasant  to  see  how  important  that 
side  of  me  is." 

"  Why,  have  you  got  money  ?  " 

She  looked  a  little  surprised.  If  Jack  had  never 
been  able  to  consider  himself  apart  from  such  accidents 
as  his  birth  had  brought  him,  she  certainly  hadn't 
either,  with  regard  to  her  parentage.  She  did  not 
know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  vexed  to  find  that  he 
did  not  know  her  to  be  an  *  heiress.'  "  I  never  thought 
about  all  that,  before  I  came  to  Watermeads,"  she 
said.  "  I've  often  been  told  that  father  was  very  rich, 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  287 

and  of  course  I'm  his  only  child.  But  somehow  I've 
never  thought  about  it  in  connection  with  myself." 

"  And  now  you  do,  eh?  " 

"  Well,  I  can  hardly  help  it.  That  awful  old  Mrs. 
Conway  got  father  to  come  down  and  see  her  while 
we  were  all  out.  I  didn't  know  about  it  till  afterwards, 
as  she  kept  it  dark.  She  wanted  to  get  something  out 
of  him,  but  I  think,  from  what  he  has  written  to  me 
since,  he  saw  through  her  at  once.  Father  is  very 
clever.  He's  such  a  dear,  too.  He  only  thinks  about 
what  is  good  for  me.  He  is  quite  ready  to  clear  all 
the  horrible  debts  off  Watermeads,  and  provide  hand- 
somely for  Fred  and  me  to  live  there.  I  call  that 
handsome  of  him  after  the  way  he  was  treated." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  much  of  your  futures- 
in-law." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  to  see  the  ugly  side  of  anybody's 
nature.  Perhaps  I've  been  shielded  from  all  that  too 
much.  I  suppose  they  can't  help  it,  as  they  have  so 
much  come  down  in  the  world,  but  I  did  think  when 
I  went  to  Watermeads  that  it  was  myself  they  liked 
— because  they  were  all  very  nice  to  me  at  first — and 
it  has  been  a  shock  to  find  that  I'm  only  looked  on  as 
one  of  father's  money  bags." 

"  Poor  little  girl !  "  Jack  edged  himself  a  little  to- 
wards her  on  the  sofa,  and  she  did  not  suggest,  as  be- 
fore, that  he  should  keep  his  distance.  "  It  must  be 
rather  beastly.  I  didn't  know  they  were  like  that.  It 
makes  one  think  a  bit  about  one's  own  little  affair. 
But  it's  disgusting  that  you  should  be  bothered  by  that 
sort  of  thing." 

He  put  his  hand  sympathetically  on  her  shoulder. 


288  WATERMEADS 

She  did  not  shake  it  off,  but  leant  forward  and  wiped 
what  might  possibly  have  been  an  incipient  tear  from 
her  eyes,  though  they  were  shining,  and  seemed  quite 
dry.  "  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  anything,"  she 
said  hurriedly.  "  It  was  the  last  thing  I  meant  to 
talk  about  when  we  came  in  here.  Please  forget  all 
I've  said,  and  don't  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  anybody 
outside.  It  would  be  awful  if  they  were  to  know." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  should  never  do  that.  What  do 
you  take  me  for?  I'm  very  glad  you  told  me.  Look 
here,  I  want  you  to  look  on  me  as  a  pal.  If  you've 
got  yourself  in  a  mess,  and  don't  know  how  to  get 
out  of  it,  let  me  help  you.  I  liked  you  awfully,  you 
know,  the  very  first  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you.  I'd  do 
a  lot  to  help  you,  and  you  won't  find  I'm  a  bad  sort 
of  chap  to  confide  in." 

She  used  her  handkerchief  again,  and  this  time 
there  was  a  suspicion  of  dampness  to  be  cleared  away. 
"  I  think  you're  awfully  kind,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose 
that  is  what  has  made  me  say  as  much  as  I  have  to 
you.  It's  rather  hard  to  be  always  pretending  to  be 
in  the  highest  spirits  and  to  be  feeling  very  happy 
when  one  isn't  happy  at  all.  Tonight  I  have  felt 
rather  happy;  it  has  been  so  comforting  to  feel  that 
people  like  me,  not  because  of  father's  money  but  be- 
cause of  myself.  You  see  you  didn't  know  anything 
about  the  money,  but  it  didn't  make  any  difference  to 
you.  I  suppose  that  is  partly  what  has  made  me  talk 
to  you." 

Jack  did  not  reflect  that  she  had  talked  a  good  deal 
before  her  father's  money  had  been  mentioned.  He  felt 
that  he  was  better  than  other  men  in  this  respect,  and 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  289 

in  particular,  better  than  the  Conways,  upon  whom 
this  nice  pretty  girl's  disclosures  had  thrown  a  sin- 
ister light.  It  was  gratifying  that  she  should  have 
recognised  in  him  a  friend  in  whom  she  could  safely 
confide.  He  must  show  her  that  she  could  trust  him 
all  the  way. 

He  moved  a  little  closer  to  her  on  the  sofa  and  took 
the  hand  with  which  she  was  making  play  with  a  little 
handkerchief  of  lace  and  embroidery.  "  Look  here, 
little  girl,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  all  about  it,  as  you've 
told  me  so  much.  What  about  Fred?  He  isn't  like 
the  rest  of  them,  is  he?  It  wasn't  your  money  he  was 
after  when  he  asked  you  to  marry  him." 

"  I'm  sure  he's  fond  of  me,"  she  said.  "  He's  aw- 
fully jealous.  I  don't  know  what  he'll  say  when  he 
knows  I've  been  in  here  with  you." 

"  Oh,  we'll  get  out  of  that  all  right.  We'll  slip  out 
into  the  garden,  and  say  we've  been  there.  He  can't 
object  to  that." 

Freda  did  not  object  either.  "  Of  course,  I  can't 
be  certain  of  anything,"  she  said.  "  I've  never  thought 
about  money  before,  but  all  sorts  of  ideas  are  being 
put  into  my  head,  and  I  can't  help  them  worrying 
me.  Fred  is  quite  ready  to  live  at  Watermeads  on 
the  money  my  father  is  going  to  give  me." 

"  What,  live  at  Watermeads  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
family !  Are  they  going  to  live  on  your  father's 
money  too?  Surely  not!" 

"  They  are  going  to  move  to  a  smaller  house.  They 
will  have  the  rent  of  Watermeads,  and  it  will  be  their 
house  still,  and  everything  that  will  be  done  to  it  to 
make  it  like  other  houses  will  be  done  with  father's 


290  WATERMEADS 

money.  He  told  me  that  it  would  cost  thousands  of 
pounds  to  put  it  into  order.  Oh,  I  don't  know. 
They're  bargaining  still.  Father  is  very  generous,  but 
he  doesn't  like  to  be  put  upon.  Fred  hardly  says  any- 
thing to  me  about  it.  We  just  talk  about  what  is 
going  to  be  done." 

"  It  all  sounds  pretty  beastly.  Honestly,  I  never 
thought  they  were  like  that.  Are  you  sure  you're  not 
making  a  mistake?  " 

"  I  go  by  what  father  says.  He  wrote  first  that  if 
he  had  known  how  things  were  he  wouldn't  have  let 
Fred  propose  to  me." 

"  Did  he?  That's  pretty  strong.  I  say,  little  girl, 
are  you  quite  sure  that  you'd  better  go  on  with  it? 
I  can  see  you're  very  fond  of  Fred,  and  I  don't  think 
there's  much  wrong  with  him,  but " 

"  I  can't  feel  as  certain  about  Fred  as  I  did  at 
first,"  she  interrupted  him.  It  seemed  that  he  was  not 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  she  was  very  fond  of  Fred. 

"  Well,  if  you  feel  like  that,  hadn't  you  better  cut 
it  all  out,  while  there's  still  time?  You  must  remember 
that  if  you  make  a  mistake  now  you  won't  be  able  to 
mend  it  afterwards." 

She  rose  from  her  seat.  "  I've  given  my  word,"  she 
said  simply.  "  It  is  too  late  to  draw  back  now. 
Really,  Jack,  we  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer.  Are 
my  eyes  all  right.  They  don't  look  as  if  I'd  been 
mopping  them,  do  they  ?  " 

They  didn't  look  in  the  least  like  that,  but  were 
hard  and  brilliant  as  she  stood  facing  him.  His 
own  were  moist,  with  a  not  pleasant  moisture,  as 
he  said :  "  You  dear  little  Freda,  if  you  think  I've 


IN  JACK'S  ROOM  291 

been  nice  to  you,  give  me  just  one  kiss.  I'll  never 
tell  a  soul." 

She  did  not  shrink  from  his  gaze.  "  You  ought  not 
to,"  she  said.  "  But  if  you  won't  tell  anyone,  you 
may,  just  one." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  and  she  returned  his  kiss. 
It  was  like  strong  wine  to  him,  and  he  stood  looking 
at  her  for  an  instant,  and  she  at  him,  as  if  waiting 
for  something  more.  But  before  he  could  speak  they 
heard  Fred's  voice  calling  *  Freda,'  from  the  garden. 

Both  of  them  started  guiltily.  "  Come  this  way," 
said  Jack,  and  led  her  quickly  through  another  door 
from  the  one  by  which  they  had  entered  the  room,  into 
a  lobby,  and  thence  into  the  garden. 

The  long  paved  path  was  round  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  Fred's  footsteps  were  heard  approaching 
them.  "  We'll  play  hide  and  seek  with  him,"  whispered 
Jack,  "  and  say  we  did  it  for  a  lark." 

They  moved  into  the  shade  of  some  trees,  but  Fred 
was  already  returning  on  his  steps.  "  Now  we'll  slip 
in  and  let  him  find  us  dancing,"  said  Jack.  "  Darling, 
give  me  just  one  more." 

But  Freda  refused.  "  You've  had  quite  enough — 
for  the  present,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

AN  ENGAGEMENT 

ELSIE  and  Rose  went  up  to  the  room  they  had  shared 
together  since  they  were  little  girls,  just  as  the  sun 
was  rising  above  the  trees  in  the  garden.  The  fit  of 
sulks  that  the  otherwise  admirably  behaved  summer 
had  recently  indulged  in  was  over,  and  the  new  day 
smiled  broadly  on  Watermeads,  as  if  to  encourage  the 
happiness  that  many  previous  days  had  brought  it. 

The  moment  the  door  was  shut  Rose  turned  to  em- 
brace her  sister.  "  Darling,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

Elsie  returned  the  embrace.  Her  eyes  were  full ;  she 
put  her  cheek  against  the  soft  flesh  of  Rose's  neck; 
she  was  the  softer  of  the  two  at  that  moment.  "  Dar- 
ling," she  said,  "  I  knew  you  knew.  Do  you  think  any- 
one else  has  guessed?  " 

They  fell  apart,  and  gazed  at  one  another,  their 
eyes  full  of  love  and  enquiry.  "  I've  known  nearly 
from  the  first  that  it  was  you,"  said  Rose.  "  I've 
laughed  sometimes  when  I've  seen  that  other  people 
didn't  see  it.  Why  haven't  we  talked  about  it,  darling? 
You've  known  it  was  coming,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  happy  laugh.  "  I  thought 
it  was  Olivia  all  the  time.  And  yet  there  was  some- 
thing— I  didn't  let  myself  think  about  it,  but  I  sup- 
pose it  was  that  that  made  me " — she  hesitated — 
"  readv  for  it." 


AN  ENGAGEMENT  293 

"  You  do  love  him.  I  know  you  do.  I  knew  you 
did." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  think  I'm  the  happiest  girl  in  the 
world." 

They  talked  to  one  another  during  the  process  of 
undressing  and  hair-brushing,  and  for  a  long  long 
time  afterwards,  lying  close  together  in  the  same  bed, 
until  the  sun  had  climbed  high  into  the  sky,  and  signs 
of  life  in  the  house  betokened  that  the  new  day  had 
begun  in  earnest. 

It  was  Edward  Probert  who  had  declared  his  love, 
in  some  nook  of  the  house  in  which  such  a  different 
scene  had  been  enacted  a  few  hours  before.  As  Elsie 
unfolded  her  story  it  seemed  like  a  glimpse  into  some 
shy  untroubled  paradise,  tremulous  with  unimagined 
happiness  and  hope.  He  had  always  loved  her,  almost 
from  the  first  moment  he  had  seen  her,  and  the  longer 
he  had  known  her  the  more  his  love  had  grown.  He 
had  not  revealed  it  earlier,  partly  because  of  the  joy 
of  getting  to  know  her  better  and  finding  in  her  al- 
ways some  new  thing  to  love  and  to  trust  to,  partly 
because  he  could  hardly  believe  that  his  declaration 
would  not  be  a  surprise  to  her.  But  there  had  been 
something  all  the  time  that  had  led  him  to  hope.  He 
could  not  have  loved  her  quite  so  well  if  he  had  not 
rested  himself  on  the  feeling  that  she  showed  towards 
him,  even  though  she  herself  might  be  unaware  of  its 
quality.  There  had  been  no  rapture  of  surprise  when 
she  had  put  her  hand  into  his  and  pressed  it,  as  a  sign 
that  she  was  his,  but  only  a  deep  happiness  almost  too 
full  for  words.  They  were  one  in  all  love  and  under- 
standing from  the  first.  Words  had  been  used  after- 


294  WATERMEADS 

wards  in  the  sweet  intercourse  of  lovers,  but  not  to 
bridge  doubts.  There  were  no  doubts  between  them, 
nor  ever  would  be. 

Elsie  wept  softly  for  her  new  found  happiness. 
Breaking  full  upon  her  in  this  way  it  was  almost  more 
than  she  could  support.  "  It  is  like  a  deep  well,"  she 
said.  "  The  more  I  dip  into  it  the  more  there  is  to 
find.  Rose  darling,  he's  so  good.  It  isn't  only  that 
he's  handsome  and  kind  and  nice  all  through.  Per- 
haps I  might  have  loved  him  if  he  had  been  only  that 
— it's  enough  to  make  you  love  him  dearly.  But  I 
feel  that  there's  something  behind  all  that — something 
that  one  can  trust  to  and  know  that  it  will  never  fail 
you." 

"  He's  a  dear,"  said  Rose.  "  I  love  him  too,  and 
most  of  all  for  loving  you,  who  are  far  the  best  of 
us." 

"  Rose,  you  say  you've  seen.    Olivia  won't  be ?  " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  Rose  understood 
it.  "  Olivia  likes  him,"  she  said ;  "  but  she  doesn't  love 
him — not  in  that  way.  She  will  love  him  as  I  do,  be- 
cause he  is  going  to  be  your  husband.  Oh,  Elsie,  how 
heavenly  it  will  be  having  you  married  and  living  so 
near  us." 

Elsie  laughed  happily.  "  It's  all  heavenly,"  she 
said.  "  And  there's  so  much  of  it  that  one  has  hardly 
had  time  to  think  of  yet.  We  had  very  little  time  to 
talk.  We  didn't  want  to  stay  away  for  long  and  get 
noticed.  We  never  once  mentioned  Lutterbourne,  ex- 
cept that  he  asked  me  if  I  liked  the  idea  of  being  a 
clergyman's  wife.  I  shall  like  it,  you  know.  I  mean 
not  only  because  it  is  Edward.  But  because  it's  him 


AN  ENGAGEMENT  295 

I  shall  like  it  better  than  anything.  I  shall  be  able 
to  help  him  more  than  I  should  otherwise.  And  he 
well  help  me,  too.  One  thing  that  I  have  known  about 
him  is  that  he  loves  his  church  and  his  work.  Per- 
haps I  might  have  guessed  how  it  was  with  me  when 
Lady  Sophia  said  something  the  other  day  about  his 
having  a  very  soft  job,  or  some  horrid  expression  of 
that  sort,  which  left  him  plenty  of  time  to  amuse  him- 
self in.  I  felt  angry,  and  said  I  knew  he  wasn't  like 
that." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Oh,  she  looked  at  me  and  said :  *  Oh,  so  that's  how 
you  feel  about  it,  is  it?  '  That  might  have  made  me 
think,  but  I  was  only  cross  with  her.  No,  I've  never 
known  that  I  loved  him  until  tonight." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  guessed." 

"  It  looks  as  if  she  did,  now  I  remember  what  she 
said  and  how  she  looked.  She's  very  sharp.  Well, 
I  suppose  she'll  be  pleased.  Everybody  will  be  pleased, 
especially  darling  Dad.  That  makes  me  happier  than 
ever.  Oh,  Rose,  there's  isn't  anything  to  do  with  it — 
nothing  at  all — that  isn't  happy." 

By  and  by,  as  Elsie  talked,  Rose  grew  more  silent, 
and  at  last  Elsie  said  to  her :  "  I  wonder  if  I  should 
have  found  out  about  myself  if  you  and  I  had  talked 
about  everything,  as  we  always  have.  Rose  darling, 
why  haven't  we?  Now  I've  told  you  everything,  isn't 
there  something  for  you  to  tell  me?  I'm  not  to  be 
selfish  about  my  own  happiness.  I  don't  want  to  be. 
It  makes  me  love  all  those  whom  I  do  love  much  more, 
even  you,  darling." 

For  answer  Rose  burst  into  tears.     "  Oh,  I'm  very 


296  WATERMEADS 

unhappy,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  you  everything.  I've 
wanted  to  for  a  long  time,  but  I  didn't  know  what  there 
was  to  tell.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  tell  you  properly 
now." 

It  came  out  little  by  little.  In  much  of  what  she 
said  she  seemed  to  be  learning  things  about  herself 
for  the  first  time.  She  had  liked  Jack  Kirby.  She 
had  known  that  he  wanted  something  more  of  her  than 
that,  and  it  had  flattered  her  a  little,  and  perhaps 
made  her  want  to  give  him  more;  but  whatever  it  was 
that  she  had  felt  for  him  it  had  been  nothing  like 
what  Elsie  had  disclosed  of  her  love  for  Edward.  "  I 
know  now  that  I  never  could,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  I 
couldn't  before,  if  he  had  said  anything  to  me;  but 
I  had  been  thinking  about  other  things — horrid  things 
— and  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  he  had 
asked  me,  as  I  thought  he  might." 

The  *  horrid  things  '  had  been  no  more  than  what 
Jack  could  have  given  her,  if  he  had  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  and  she  had  liked  him  well  enough  to  con- 
sent. "  We  have  always  been  so  poor  here,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  has  made  a  lot  of  difference  to  us,  and  we 
have  talked  about  it  so  much.  Even  about  Fred,  you 
and  I  talked  openly  of  his  marrying  an  heiress  to  put 
things  straight.  I  ought  not  to  have  thought  about 
all  that  side  of  it  at  all;  but  I  couldn't  help  it — and 
I  wasn't  sure  that  I  didn't  love  him — a  little — though 
I  know  now  that  I  don't,  and  never  have.  I  thought 
Dad  would  be  pleased." 

"  I  believe  Dad  would  have  hated  it.  I  believe  it's 
that  that  has  been  worrying  him.  I'm  sure  he  doesn't 
like  him,  and  he  said  something  to  me  before  we  went 


AN   ENGAGEMENT  297 

off  this  evening  that  seemed  to  clear  everything  up — 
about  his  not  being  like  himself  lately,  I  mean — sud- 
denly." 

"  What  did  he  say?  " 

"  He  kissed  me  and  said:  *  Well,  go  and  enjoy  your- 
self, darling,  but  I  wish  Prittlewell  and  all  its  occu- 
pants were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.' ' 

They  discussed  this  for  a  time,  and  agreed  that  the 
cryptic  speech  might  have  *  meant  that,'  and  proba- 
bly did,  in  the  light  of  Lord  Kirby's  visit  a  week  or  so 
before,  the  object  of  which  had  never  been  disclosed. 
"  It  would  be  like  him — darling  old  Dad,"  said  Elsie. 
"  People  outside  might  think  that  he  would  be  pleased 
for  us  to  marry  rich  men,  but  we  know  it  wouldn't 
count  with  him  at  all,  really.  He  loves  us  too  much." 

"  I  haven't  been  very  nice  to  him  lately,"  said  Rose. 
"  I've  been  thinking  too  much  about  other  things. 
But  I  don't  want  anybody  but  Dad  now.  He  loves 
me  and  I  love  him." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Elsie,  "  and  loving  Edward  makes 
me  love  him  all  the  more." 

"  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  like  that  with  me  if 
I  had  really  loved  Jack  the  least  little  bit.  It  was 
having  my  mind  full  of  him  and  not  loving  him  that 
made  me  neglect  dear  old  Dad.  I'll  make  it  up  to 
him  now.  Oh,  it's  such  a  relief  to  have  it  all  over 
and  know  where  I  am  again.  It's  like  waking  up  from 
a  horrid  dream." 

"  It  can't  have  been  so  bad  as  that,  darling.  If  it 
had,  you  wouldn't  have  been  in  any  doubt  at  all." 

"  It  seems  like  that  now.  He  wasn't  nice  a  bit  this 
evening.  He  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  I — 


298  WATERMEADS 

that  I  wanted  him ;  but  somehow  he  didn't  seem  to 
want  me  nearly  as  much  as  he  has  before.  He  was 
quite  pleased  to  have  that  horrid  Freda  making  eyes 
at  him." 

The  adjective  was  startling  to  both.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  any  adverse  criticism  of  Freda  had  been 
used  by  either  of  them. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Elsie  said 
with  conviction :  "  I  hate  her.  I  don't  believe  she's 
straight;  and  I  don't  believe  she  loves  Fred  a  bit." 

This  also  had  to  be  considered.  "  She  is  making 
Fred  very  unhappy,"  said  Elsie.  "  Look  how  she  be- 
haved this  evening — going  away  with  Jack  like  that! 
I  suppose  it  was  to  make  Fred  jealous.  She  can't  be 
satisfied  with  the  love  he  gives  her.  She  must  have 
scenes  and  excitement  with  it." 

"  I  never  really  liked  her,"  said  Rose,  "  though  I 
tried  hard  to  at  first.  And  I  believe  she  hates  you  and 
me." 

"  She  has  tried  to  be  nice — sometimes." 

"  She  hasn't  tried  much,  lately.  I'm  sure  she's  a  cat 
at  heart,  and  she  can't  help  showing  it.  She  likes  to 
make  us  feel  that  we  are  nothing  beside  her,  because 
we  are  poor,  and  she  can  have  everything  she  wants. 
She's  turning  up  her  nose  at  us  all  the  time;  and  she 
tries  to  make  others  see  us  as  she  does." 

"  I've  thought  that,  too.  I  suppose  it  is  natural 
now  that  I  should  think  of  everything  in  connection 
with  Edward,  but  sometimes,  when  we  have  all  been 
talking  together,  she  has  seemed  to  be  saying  to  him 
that  she  and  he  understood  one  another,  and  we  are 
beneath  them  altogether.  I  don't  know  why  she  has 


AN   ENGAGEMENT  299 

done  it  to  him  particularly.  I  haven't  noticed  it  so 
much  with  Giles,  or  the  others." 

"  Giles  doesn't  like  her.     He  told  me  so." 

"Did  he?     When  was  that?" 

"  The  first  day.  I  was  trying  to  make  the  best  of 
her,  and  he  listened  without  saying  anything.  Then 
I  said:  *  Don't  you  think  she's  nice?  '  and  he  said:  '  If 
she  marries  Fred,  I  shall  try  to  like  her.'  He  didn't 
say  any  more,  but  he  must  have  meant  that  he  didn't 
like  her." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  said  if  she  marries  Fred." 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  she  would  marry  him  if  she 
could  get  somebody  she  liked  better.  I  suppose  Giles 
thinks  that,  too.  He  sees  a  lot,  though  he  doesn't  say 
much." 

"  He  has  always  hated  Jack." 

"  I  know,  and  you  all  used  to  laugh  at  him  for  it ; 
/  never  did.  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  he  wasn't  right. 
Now  I  think  he  is.  At  least,  I  don't  hate  Jack,  but 
I  definitely  don't  like  him.  I  think  it  was  perfectly 
horrid  the  way  he  went  on  with  Freda  tonight.  And 
taking  her  away  like  that !  I  suppose  that's  what  they 
call  flirting,  and  perhaps  that's  all  he  wanted  of  me." 

"  I  don't  think  so,  darling.  Perhaps  he  is  what  they 
call  flighty,  and  is  ready  to  amuse  himself  with  any 
pretty  girl.  But  it  wasn't  only  that  with  you.  He 
does  like  you  awfully,  I'm  sure,  and  I  can't  really  dis- 
like him  myself,  because  of  that.  I  think  he  means 
more,  too.  He  took  you  in  to  dinner  tonight,  and  you 
sat  on  the  other  side  of  Lord  Kirby.  You  were  the 
most  honoured  person  there  after  Freda.  And  she  was 
first  because  she  has  just  become  engaged." 


300  WATERMEADS 

"  Lord  Kirby  has  always  been  very  sweet  to  me. 
That  was  one  reason  why  I  thought  it  wouldn't  be 
so  bad,  if  Jack  did  ask  me,  and  I  could  make  up  my 
mind  to  it." 

"  I  think  he  will  ask  you,  darling.  He  amused  him- 
self with  Freda  tonight,  and  I  do  think  it  was  rather 
horrid  of  him,  with  you  there.  But  I'm  sure  she  led 
him  on." 

"  I  think  so,  too.  Oh,  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any 
more;  it's  all  so  horrid.  We'll  talk  a  little  more  about 
you  and  Edward,  and  then  we'll  go  to  sleep." 

Edward  Probert  came  over  early  in  the  morning. 
His  interview  with  Sydney  Conway  was  short,  but 
eminently  satisfactory.  Sydney  was  immensely  sur- 
prised, having  got  quite  another  idea  into  his  head 
with  reference  to  this  suitor,  but  upon  a  cursory  self- 
examination  he  found  also  that  he  was  immensely 
pleased.  The  advantages  of  the  marriage  offered  to 
his  daughter  were  beyond  question,  and  when  offered 
by  a  young  man  whom  he  liked  and  respected  he  was 
able  to  draw  considerable  satisfaction  from  them. 
There  was  Elsie,  handsomely  provided  for,  to  an  ex- 
tent that  he  could  hardly  have  hoped  for  her.  De- 
cidedly, a  father  might  take  pleasure  in  such  a  match 
for  his  daughter.  Advantages  offered  by  Jack  Kirby 
had  not  weighed  with  him.  But  this  was  different. 

He  also  found  his  mind  wonderfully  cleared  of  the 
hamper  of  parental  jealousy  that  had  troubled  it.  It 
was  sweet  to  him  to  see  his  dear  child  so  happy  in  her 
love,  which  rather  increased  than  lessened  her  love  for 
himself.  He  made  himself  happy  in  her  happiness,  and 
it  was  an  added  joy  to  know  that  for  some  time  at 


AN  ENGAGEMENT  301 

least  she  would  not  be  far  removed  from  him.  After 
all,  the  dread  he  had  indulged  on  his  own  behalf,  of 
the  first  signs  of  love  in  one  of  his  daughters,  had 
only  been  the  result  of  that  passionate  dislike  which 
he  had  felt  for  the  one  man  who  had  sought  for  them. 
He  knew  now  that  if  the  menace  of  Jack  Kirby's  court- 
ship should  be  removed  from  Rose,  and  Giles  Bellamy 
should  succeed  with  her,  he  should  feel  just  as  happy 
about  her  as  he  did  about  Elsie.  And  Elsie  had 
whispered  him  a  word  which  encouraged  him  to  think 
that  that  danger  was  now  past. 

Mrs.  Conway  received  the  news  with  equanimity  and 
forbearance.  It  appeared  that  she  had  known  that  this 
would  happen  from  the  first,  and  she  had  only  not  said 
so  because  her  feelings  and  experience  in  such  mat- 
ters were,  naturally,  of  no  consequence  whatever. 
However,  if  a  mother's  love  was  of  any  use  to  Elsie 
at  the  present  conjuncture  of  affairs,  or  at  any  fu- 
ture time,  she  might  perhaps  be  glad  to  know  that 
she  had  it.  As  for  the  man  she  had  chosen,  Mrs.  Con- 
way  had  observed  him  closely,  and  she  had  seen  very 
little  that  she  could  not  approve  of  in  him.  Time 
would  show,  but  she  was  quite  inclined  to  hope  that  he 
would  stand  the  test.  She  rebuked  her  husband,  in 
private,  for  referring  to  Edward's  worldly  expecta- 
tions. Love,  she  explained,  was  too  sacred  a  thing  to 
be  mixed  up  with  such  mundane  matters,  and  for  her 
part  it  would  have  made  no  difference  if  Edward  had 
been  a  simple  curate  with  no  expectations  whatever; 
she  would  have  welcomed  him  just  the  same,  and  she 
should  like  him  to  know  that.  But  in  a  subsequent 
conversation  with  Lady  Sophia  she  showed  as  complete 


302  WATERMEADS 

a  knowledge  of  Edward's  immediate  relationships  as 
could  be  drawn  from  a  book  of  reference  having  to  do 
with  the  Baronetage  of  the  United  Kingdom,  and  even 
discussed  the  probable  length  of  life  that  might  be  al- 
lowed to  Edward's  father,  in  view  of  that  enjoyed  by 
Sir  Vivian's  fathers  before  him. 

It  was  Penelope  who  took  the  news  to  Freda,  with 
her  breakfast,  which  she  had  ordered  in  her  bedroom 
at  eleven  o'clock. 

Freda's  beauty,  undeniable  when  she  was  at  her  best, 
was  not  of  the  early  morning  sort,  and  she  looked 
positively  ugly  when  Penelope  announced  her  astound- 
ing news. 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know,  Freda.  Edward 
asked  Elsie  to  marry  him  last  night  at  the  ball,  and 
he  came  over  at  ten  o'clock  to  see  father.  So  it's  all 
settled." 

"Edward!  Elsie!"  exclaimed  Freda.  "Don't  be 
silly,  Penelope.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  tiresome 
jokes.  I'm  much  too  tired." 

Penelope  looked  at  her  critically.  "  You  do  look 
tired,"  she  said.  "  In  fact  you  look  awful.  I  shouldn't 
go  downstairs  if  I  were  you  before  you've  had  another 
sleep.  But  it's  quite  true  about  Edward  and  Elsie. 
He  is  with  her  now,  in  the  parlour.  I'm  very  glad 
myself,  because  Elsie  will  be  *  my  lady.'  Cooky  told 
me  so.  Father  is  very  pleased,  too,  and  so  is  mother, 
though  she  pretends  not  to  be.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  say 
that  Fred  sends  his  love,  and  is  longing  for  you  to 
come  down.  He  wants  to  know  how  long  you'll  be." 

Freda  ignored  this  message,  and  asked  her  some 
questions  about  what  had  happened.  But  she  knew 


AN   ENGAGEMENT  303 

no  more  than  she  had  told  already.  "  I  can  see  quite 
plainly  that  you  are  not  pleased,"  she  said.  "  Why 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  go  away,"  said  Freda  crossly.  "  I've  got  a 
splitting  headache,  and  you're  making  it  worse  with 
your  chatter.  Tell  Fred  I'm  not  well,  and  I  shan't 
be  down  till  lunch  time." 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

LUTTERBOURNE  RECTORY 

WHEN  Freda  came  downstairs  at  last,  just  before 
luncheon,  all  traces  of  ill-humour  had  left  her.  She 
was  fresh  and  smiling,  and  congratulated  Edward  and 
Elsie  so  nicely,  and  with  such  apparent  delight  in  the 
news  of  their  engagement,  that  Elsie  was  stricken  with 
compunction  at  having  criticised  her,  and  Rose,  who 
was  standing  by  and  watching  her  carefully,  could 
find  no  fault  with  her  attitude.  Edward  was  pleased 
with  it,  too.  His  handsome  face  lit  up  as  she  offered 
him  her  felicitations.  "  Well,  we've  both  been  through 
it  now,"  he  said,  with  a  happy  smile.  "  By  and  by  we 
shall  all  be  living  close  to  one  another,  and  taking  an 
interest  in  each  other's  establishments." 

Fred  had  come  up  to  greet  his  Freda.  She  had  for- 
bidden him  to  kiss  her  in  public,  but  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  moment  he  thought  he  might  put  his  arm  round 
her  waist  to  show  that  she  was  his,  as  Elsie  was  Ed- 
ward's. She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  loving  smile, 
and  gave  him  a  kiss,  before  she  disengaged  herself.  All 
Fred's  doubts  of  the  night  before  were  swept  away, 
and  he  felt  as  happy  as  a  king.  If  Edward  had  se- 
cured one  treasure,  he  had  secured  another.  There 
would  be  nothing  but  peace  and  contentment,  both  at 
Watermeads  and  Lutterbourne,  when  the  present 
strong  emotions  should  have  led  to  their  appointed 
end. 

304 


LUTTERBOURNE   RECTORY  305 

"  We're  all  going  over  to  Lutterbourne  this  after- 
noon," Fred  told  Freda.  "  You'd  like  to  come, 
wouldn't  you?  I  didn't  like  to  disturb  you  to  ask." 

The  Conways  had  always  been  meaning  to  go  over 
to  Lutterbourne  throughout  the  summer.  Edward  had 
suggested  it  several  times,  but  Lutterbourne  was 
nearly  twelve  miles  away,  and  it  had  generally  been 
too  hot  for  a  bicycling  expedition,  which  was  the  only 
means  of  locomotion  available  at  Watermeads  for  such 
distances.  Edward,  on  his  motor-bicycle,  had  come 
constantly  to  Watermeads,  and  the  invitation  so  far 
had  remained  in  abeyance. 

But  it  was  necessary  now  for  all  of  them  to  see  the 
house  to  which  he  was  so  soon  to  transfer  Elsie,  and 
he  had  torn  himself  away  from  her  for  an  hour  to 
commandeer  a  couple  of  cars,  and  to  telephone  such 
instructions  to  his  housekeeper  as  would  ensure  a  fit- 
ting welcome  for  a  large  party. 

It  was  Freda's  last  day  at  Watermeads.  She  was 
going  to  join  her  father  and  mother  for  a  month's 
sojourn  at  Scarborough,  where  Fred  was  to  follow 
her  in  a  week's  time.  Her  last  day  was  to  have  been 
devoted  to  Fred  and  the  family  alone,  and  no-one  had 
been  invited  for  the  usual  afternoon  games.  But  she 
assured  Fred,  when  they  were  alone  together  for  a 
moment,  that  it  would  give  her  the  greatest  pleasure 
to  go  over  to  Lutterbourne.  "  It's  such  a  splendid 
thing  for  Elsie  to  have  caught  such  a  swell  as  Ed- 
ward," she  said,  "  that  we  must  all  make  as  much  of 
her  as  possible.  Besides,  I  want  to  see  the  house  she 
is  going  to  live  in.  So  I  really  don't  mind,  Freddy 
dear.  We  shall  be  able  to  be  alone  this  evening." 


306  WATERMEADS 

Fred  didn't  like  her  saying  that  Elsie  had  *  caught ' 
Edward ;  but  she  used  so  many  expressions  of  that  sort 
without  meaning  anything  by  them  that  he  was  get- 
ting used  to  it.  No  doubt  she  had  learnt  them  all 
from  her  father,  and  would  grow  out  of  them  in  time. 
They  didn't  represent  anything  in  her  own  charming 
nature,  least  of  all  this  particular  one,  in  a  matter  in 
which  she  had  shown  herself  to  be  as  unselfishly  pleased 
as  any  of  them.  Nevertheless,  he  put  in  his  mild  pro- 
test. "  It's  odd  that  Elsie  never  had  any  idea  that 
it  was  she  Edward  wanted,"  he  said.  "  None  of  us 
had.  We  were  all  mistaken,  weren't  we — you  included, 
darling?  Freda,  I  don't  believe  you're  half  as 
sharp  as  you  pretend  to  be.  Now  say  something  nice 
about  that." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 
shade  of  tartness. 

"  Well,  I  hoped  you'd  say  that  love  had  blinded  your 
eyes.  I'll  say  it  for  you.  You  do  love  me,  don't  you, 
darling?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Freda.  "  But  as  for  Elsie 
not  knowing !  Oh,  well,  I'm  very  glad  she's  mak- 
ing such  a  good  match,  though  I  should  think  it  would 
be  rather  a  bore  for  her  to  have  to  play  at  being  a 
clergyman's  wife  until  Edward  comes  in  for  his  prop- 
erty. I'm  glad  it's  her,  and  not  me.  Come  on, 
Freddy,  let's  go  in  to  lunch." 

The  whole  family  crowded  into  the  two  cars,  with 
Freda  and  Olivia  in  addition,  and  soon  covered  the 
twelve  miles  of  winding  road  that  lay  between  Water- 
meads  and  Lutterbourne.  When  they  got  halfway 
they  met  Lady  Sophia  Raine  on  her  way  to  pay  them 


LUTTERBOURNE   RECTORY  307 

a  friendly  call,  and  after  some  parley  Mrs.  Conway 
joined  her  in  her  carriage,  and  the  horses'  heads  were 
turned  towards  Lutterbourne. 

The  situation  had  been  shortly  explained  to  Lady 
Sophia  as  the  carriage  and  the  first  car  had  halted 
close  to  one  another.  Sitting  upright  in  her  seat  she 
had  said  to  Elsie :  "  My  dear,  I'm  very  glad  to  hear 
it.  I'd  give  you  a  kiss  if  I  could  get  at  you."  And 
to  Edward  she  had  said :  "  You're  a  very  lucky  young 
man.  I  shall  be  near  you  to  see  how  you  behave,  and 
if  you  don't  treat  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  treated, 
you'll  have  me  down  on  you." 

She  expressed  her  pleasure  now  at  length  to  Mrs. 
Conway,  when  they  had  waited  for  the  dust  of  the 
cars  to  disappear,  and  were  rolling  comfortably  to- 
wards their  destination  behind  the  two  handsome  but 
easy-going  horses.  "  It's  as  good  a  match  as  the  dear 
girl  could  make,"  she  said,  "  and  he's  a  thoroughly 
nice  young  man  into  the  bargain,  which  is  always  an 
advantage  in  these  matters.  I  said  I  should  try  to 
bring  about  something  of  the  sort  myself,  if  you  re- 
member, when  he  first  came  into  the  County,  but  I'd 
hardly  thought  of  beginning  to  move,  when,  lo  and  be- 
hold, you've  done  it  all  yourself,  Jane !  I  congratulate 
you  sincerely,  but  confess  that  I  didn't  think  you  had 
it  in  you.  Now  you  have  only  to  bring  that  young 
Kirby  to  book  for  Rose,  and  you  can  sit  down  and 
enjoy  yourself  till  Penelope  is  old  enough  to  be  pro- 
vided for.  Whether  you'll  be  able  to  do  as  well  for 
her  as  for  Elsie  and  Rose  is  extremely  doubtful,  but 
by  the  time  she's  ready  they  ought  to  be  able  to  do 
something  for  her.  I  once  knew  a  poor  country  par- 


308  WATERMEADS 

son  with  four  pretty  daughters  and  not  a  shilling  to 
bless  them  with — I  won't  tell  you  his  name.  The  eldest 
picked  up  a  Captain  in  the  Rifles,  and  lucky  to  get 
him.  The  second — or  third,  it  doesn't  matter  which, 
— stayed  with  her,  and  married  the  younger  son  of  a 
peer — a  man  in  the  same  regiment.  The  next  married 
his  father — he  was  sixty-five  and  a  martyr  to  gout, 
but  that  didn't  matter.  The  youngest  might  have 
done  better  still,  with  the  chances  she  had,  but  she 
ran  away  with  an  actor.  Still,  it  just  shows  how  one 
thing  leads  to  another  in  these  affairs,  if  you  only 
start  right.  Jane,  I  was  coming  over  to  ask  you  what 
you'd  been  able  to  manage  with  the  Blumenthal  man. 
You  wrote  to  me  that  you  had  got  him  to  come  down, 
and  promised  to  write  again  when  you  had  seen  him, 
but  you  never  did.  What  happened?  I  suppose  you 
made  a  mess  of  it,  as  you  didn't  write.  I  wish  you'd 
asked  me  to  come  and  help  you." 

Mrs.  Conway  told  her  what  had  happened,  or  as 
much  of  it  as  was  necessary  to  introduce  the  news  of 
the  arrangement  that  was  in  course  of  being  made,  to 
which  she  was  now  completely  reconciled.  "  It  is  not 
quite  what  I  had  in  my  mind,"  she  said,  "  but  the  man 
was  difficult  and  headstrong.  I  can't  say,  though, 
that  he  has  behaved  badly  in  the  long  run.  Sydney 
is  pleased  with  the  way  things  are  going,  and  I  am 
now  leaving  the  negotiations  entirely  to  him.  There 
are  certain  things  I  don't  like  in  the  arrangements;  I 
cannot  say  that  Freda  has  quite  fulfilled  my  early 
hopes  of  her,  and  she  is  hardly  doing  what  she  might 
to  make  it  agreeable  to  me  to  go  and  live  in  a  small 
house  and  leave  the  big  one  to  her.  However,  I  don't 


LUTTERBOURNE  RECTORY  309 

complain.  Now  that  I  know  her  father,  I  can  see  where 
she  gets  her  obstinate  and  domineering  spirit  from, 
and  can  forgive  it.  I  should  have  been  quite  willing 
to  give  her  the  benefit  of  my  long  experience  in  man- 
aging a  large  household ;  but  if  she  thinks  she  knows 
better  than  I  do  about  such  matters,  very  good!  So 
be  it !  " 

"  Oh,  she's  showing  the  minx  already,  is  she?  "  re- 
turned Lady  Sophia.  "  Well,  one  could  see  it  plainly 
enough  in  her  from  the  first.  You  won't  be  in  a  posi- 
tion to  drive  it  out  of  her,  Jane;  so  I  shouldn't  try, 
if  I  were  you.  Well,  I  think  you've  done  well  for  your- 
selves out  of  Blumenthal,  and  you've  done  it  without 
taking  anything  from  him  that  you  don't  give  an 
ample  return  for.  You'll  certainly  be  better  off  at 
Manor  Farm  than  you  have  been  at  Watermeads,  and 
you'll  lose  nothing  but  the  burden  of  a  great  house 
that  you  can't  afford  to  keep  up.  I'm  very  glad  in- 
deed that  things  are  at  last  taking  a  favourable  turn 
for  you  and  Sydney.  He  deserves  it,  poor  fellow,  after 
the  plucky  way  in  which  he  has  been  facing  his  trou- 
bles for  years.  He  must  be  delighted  with  this  ar- 
rangement of  Elsie's.  I'm  not  sure  that  it  isn't  the 
best  of  all  the  things  that  are  happening  to  you  nowa- 
days. There's  no  fault  to  be  found  with  it  anywhere." 

Very  little  fault  could  have  been  found  with  Lut- 
terbourne  Rectory  as  a  spacious  home  for  a  young 
married  couple,  and,  but  for  the  still  more  spacious 
surroundings  that  were  attached  to  Edward  Probert's 
future,  it  would  have  been  possible  to  anticipate  for 
him  and  Elsie  a  long  and  happy  life  spent  there  within 
the  shadow  of  the  Lutterbourne  church  tower. 


310  WATERMEADS 

The  large  red  brick  house  was  set  in  the  midst  of 
lawns  and  trees,  and  no  roof  could  be  seen  from  its 
windows  but  that  of  the  church  itself,  the  graveyard 
of  which  was  separated  from  the  garden  only  by  a 
great  hedge  of  holly  and  yew.  The  previous  incum- 
bent of  Lutterbourne  had  been  a  noted  gardener,  with 
money  in  abundance  to  ride  his  hobby.  Edward  had 
demurred  somewhat  at  the  amount  of  labour  and  the 
heavy  wages  bill  involved  in  keeping  up  the  garden, 
but  had  not  yet  taken  steps  to  cut  any  of  it  down. 
Now,  of  course,  it  would  be  kept  up  as  before,  and  it 
was  a  great  satisfaction  to  be  able  to  show  those  care- 
fully tended  acres,  with  their  great  stretches  of  shaven 
turf,  their  innumerable  delights  of  colour  and  scent, 
and  the  rare  trees  and  shrubs  that  their  late  owner 
had  planted  everywhere.  If  it  was  known  far  and 
wide  as  a  '  specimen '  garden,  it  was  also  one  in  which 
care  had  been  taken  through  long  years  to  plant  for 
beauty  as  well  as  interest.  Not  even  the  Watermeads 
gardens,  beautiful  as  they  were  in  their  wilder  growth, 
could  beat  that  of  Lutterbourne  Rectory  in  sylvan 
charm. 

The  house  was  less  attractive  in  its  existent  state, 
though  it  held  out  the  most  encouraging  promise. 
Edward  had  furnished  only  his  study,  a  dining-room 
and  a  few  bedrooms.  The  rest  was  a  large  emptiness, 
but  clean  and  swept,  and  showing  that  satisfactory 
quality  of  dignity,  proportion,  and  subdued  ornament, 
which  was  the  fine  gift  of  the  men  who  built  such 
houses  as  this  two  hundred  years  ago.  What  could 
have  been  more  delightful  for  a  prospective  bride  than 
to  be  introduced  to  such  a  house,  and  told  that  she 


LUTTERBOURNE  RECTORY  311 

could  have  her  way  with  it?  It  was  the  first-fruits 
of  the  tangible  gifts  that  were  to  be  brought  to  Elsie 
by  her  young  lover,  whose  command  of  the  means  to 
supply  such  accessories  to  married  life  as  a  house  fur- 
nished exactly  as  she  should  wish  it  to  be,  came  in 
for  the  first  time  to  enhance  the  joy  he  had  already 
given  her  in  offering  himself.  That  he  could  give  her 
a  home,  and  at  once,  was  all  that  had  hitherto  mat- 
tered to  her,  in  the  accidents  of  his  lot.  What  he 
could  give  her  over  and  above  could  not  make  him  the 
more  dear,  but  was  something  for  them  to  share  to- 
gether that  would  add  pleasure  to  a  life  already  in 
prospect  overflowing  with  it.  Elsie  could  hardly  speak 
as  they  all  went  over  the  rooms  together — her  heart 
was  so  full.  It  was  as  if  a  miracle  had  happened  to 
her,  which  had  changed  her  completely  from  the  girl 
she  had  been  twenty-four  hours  before.  It  was  too 
soon  as  yet  to  plumb  the  depths  of  her  happiness.  She 
could  only  move  quietly  along  her  appointed  path,  and 
allow  its  waves  to  wash  gently  over  her. 

So  she  talked  little,  but  the  rest  of  them  talked  a 
great  deal,  and  much  was  settled  for  her  about  which 
she  was  not  even  capable  of  forming  an  opinion. 

Edward's  only  trouble  was  that  as  host  and  cicerone 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  a  moment  alone  with 
Elsie.  He  wanted  to  say  just  the  loving  private  word 
that  would  seal  her  his  anew  in  this  first  visit  of  hers 
to  their  future  home.  The  side  that  was  there  for  all 
the  world  to  see  he  could  exhibit  to  the  crowd,  but 
there  was  another  meaning  that  the  old  house,  con- 
secrated through  years  to  happy  family  life,  was 
waiting  to  whisper  to  her  ears  alone,  with  him  as  its 


312  WATERMEADS 

interpreter.  The  need  to  touch  those  chords  became 
so  insistent  with  him  that  when  Lady  Sophia  drove 
up  and  he  went  out  to  welcome  her,  he  managed  to 
say,  behind  Mrs.  Conway's  broad  back :  "  Do  for  good- 
ness' sake  manage  for  me  to  be  alone  with  Elsie  just 
for  a  few  minutes." 

Lady  Sophia  nodded  her  sapient  sympathetic  head, 
and  directly  they  had  reached  the  sitting-room,  said: 
"  You  two  go  and  look  at  the  church  together.  I've 
got  something  to  say  that  I  don't  want  you  to  hear. 
You  can  come  back  in  ten  minutes." 

When  they  had  slipped  away,  she  announced  that 
she  had  nothing  to  say  except  that  she  would  be  glad 
of  a  cup  of  tea  as  soon  as  possible,  but  that  if  she 
didn't  arrange  for  the  young  people  to  have  a  few 
minutes  alone  together  nobody  would  think  of  it. 

Edward  and  Elsie  went  as  far  as  the  church  porch, 
and  sat  on  one  of  its  old  oak  benches.  They  were  in 
complete  privacy.  The  hot  summer  air  brooded  over 
the  flowers  and  grass  of  the  churchyard,  which  was 
kept  like  a  garden.  The  humming  of  the  bees  and  the 
noise  of  rooks  in  the  Rectory  elms  were  the  only  sounds 
that  broke  the  stillness.  Time  seemed  to  be  pausing 
for  a  blissful  moment  in  this  quiet  green  spot,  con- 
secrated to  the  eternal  rest  of  those  who  in  their  time 
had  gone  through  such  sweet  emotions  as  had  come  to 
these  young  lovers,  and  had  now  passed  to  where  love 
has  a  more  perfect  fulfilment  than  the  happiest  of 
lovers  can  know.  The  sweetness  of  the  vows  which 
these  two  renewed  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  was 
touched  with  solemnity.  They  went  into  the  cool  still 
church.  It  would  have  as  much  to  do  with  the  life 


LUTTERBOURNE   RECTORY  313 

they  were  to  lead  together  as  the  house  where  their 
days  would  be  spent.  They  knelt  for  a  little  time 
at  the  altar  rails ;  it  seemed  natural  to  both  of  them 
to  do  so,  and  neither  had  asked  it  of  the  other. 
When  they  rose  again,  they  kissed,  standing  where 
they  were  before  the  altar,  and  looking  into  one 
another's  eyes,  but  not  speaking,  and  then  went  out 
to  join  the  rest. 

Tea  had  been  served  in  the  garden,  under  the  shade 
of  a  great  lime  on  the  lawn.  They  were  still  sitting 
in  a  group  when  the  noise  of  a  large  motor  was  heard 
from  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and  presently  Jack 
Kirby  made  his  appearance,  from  the  French  window 
of  one  of  the  rooms,  and  advanced  towards  them  with 
the  air  of  one  receiving  a  warm  welcome. 

There  were  those  among  them  who  were  quite 
pleased  to  see  him,  of  whom  Edward,  who  had  not 
forgotten  that  it  was  at  Prittlewell  he  had  put  his 
happiness  to  the  test,  was  one.  But  his  arrival  was 
not  an  unmixed  pleasure  to  others,  and  it  had  the  ef- 
fect of  breaking  up  the  group,  which  showed  a 
tendency  to  move  away  in  separate  particles,  as  he 
explained  to  all  and  sundry  that  he  had  motored  over 
to  Watermeads,  and  hearing  that  everybody  had  come 
to  Lutterbourne  thought  he  might  as  well  come  too. 
By  the  time  that  he  had  settled  himself  to  his  overdue 
tea,  Sydney  Conway,  with  Elsie,  Rose,  Olivia  and  the 
three  children,  had  moved  off.  Fred  had  made  efforts 
to  get  Freda  to  come,  too,  but  she  had  remained  seated 
in  her  basket  chair,  ignoring  his  touches  and  whispers. 
So  he  had  perforce  remained  himself,  standing  awk- 
wardly at  her  side,  with  annoyance  beginning  to  dis- 


314  WATERMEADS 

turb  his  mind,  and  a  strong  distaste  for  his  one  time 
friend's  society  growing  stronger  and  stronger  within 
him. 

Jack  had  thrown  a  look  at  the  three  girls  moving 
away  across  the  lawn,  as  if  he  would  either  have  called 
them  back  or  thrown  out  a  promise  of  joining  them 
by  and  by;  but  his  eyes  had  returned  to  Freda,  who 
was  evidently  not  intending  to  move,  and  this  had  ap- 
parently satisfied  him.  It  had  all  passed  in  a  second, 
but  had  been  as  plain  in  its  meaning  to  Fred  as  if  it 
had  been  put  into  words.  Jack  wanted  to  amuse  him- 
self with  somebody  when  he  had  finished  his  tea,  and  if 
Rose  was  not  there,  then  Freda  would  do  very  well. 

It  was  Lady  Sophia  who  announced  to  him  the  news 
of  the  engagement.  "  I  suppose  you  don't  know  what 
has  happened  yet,"  she  said,  in  her  uncompromising 
fashion,  "  or  you'd  have  produced  one  of  your  grace- 
ful speeches,  as  it  came  about  at  your  little  entertain- 
ment last  night.  There's  a  happy  man  here,  and  I 
think  you  might  help  yourself  to  what  you  want,  and 
let  him  go  off  to  find  company  that  he'll  enjoy  a  good 
deal  more  than  yours." 

Edward,  who  had  been  supplying  the  wants  of  his 
belated  guest,  laughed  and  went  off  at  once,  to  escape 
further  explanations  and  congratulations.  Jack,  who 
had  been  about  to  put  a  piece  of  damp  tea-cake  into 
his  mouth,  arrested  its  progress  and  stared.  He  was 
seldom  to  be  seen  at  a  loss,  but  he  was  so  seen  now, 
as  the  meaning  of  Lady  Sophia's  words  penetrated  to 
his  understanding.  He  changed  colour  a  little,  and 
again  he  threw  a  glance  at  Freda,  of  enquiry  and  sus- 
picion. 


LUTTERBOURNE   RECTORY  315 

Lady  Sophia  laughed  openly  at  his  disconcerted  air. 
"  Oh,  you  needn't  be  alarmed,"  she  said.  "  Nobody 
has  been  trying  to  steal  a  march  on  you.  It's  Elsie 
that  has  been  fallen  in  love  with,  and  if  Rose  gets 
half  so  nice  a  husband  she'll  be  a  lucky  girl,  but  I 
don't  see  any  signs  of  his  coming  from  anywhere  at 
present." 

Jack  had  recovered  himself  during  the  progress  of 
this  speech,  and  made  appropriate  comments  on  the 
news  imparted  to  him.  Lady  Sophia  cut  them  short 
by  announcing  that  the  gnats  were  more  than  usually 
troublesome  and  that  she  should  go  and  sit 
indoors  until  her  carriage  came  round.  She  invited 
Mrs.  Conway  to  accompany  her,  and  ordered 
Fred  to  go  and  tell  her  coachman  to  be  ready  in 
half  an  hour. 

Fred  inwardly  confounded  his  godmother,  but  could 
not  very  well  escape  obedience  to  her  instructions. 
"  Come  with  me,"  he  said  to  Freda.  "  You  haven't  seen 
the  stables  yet." 

Freda  looked  up  at  him  with  a  clear  gaze.  "  I  don't 
want  to,"  she  said.  "  I  hate  the  smell  of  stables,  and 
it's  very  hot.  I'll  stay  here  and  keep  Mr.  Kirby  com- 
pany." 

"  We  shan't  give  you  the  slip  a  second  time,"  said 
Jack,  with  a  laugh.  "  You'll  find  us  sitting  here  like 
good  children  when  you  come  back." 

Fred  went  off,  the  set  of  his  shoulders  showing  acute 
displeasure.  He  was  hardly  out  of  earshot  before 
Jack  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  Can't  we  get  away  some- 
where before  he  comes  back?  You  can  make  it  all 
right  with  him  afterwards." 


816  WATERMEADS 

But  Freda  was  not  quite  ready  for  such  an  open 
overthrowal  of  all  allegiance — or  else  not  ready  to  al- 
low Jack  to  believe  that  he  could  have  his  way  with 
her.  "  I'm  very  comfortable  where  I  am,  thanks,"  she 
said. 

He  threw  her  a  baffled  frown,  but  said  coolly,  "  Oh, 
all  right.  I  thought  you'd  like  a  little  talk,  that's  all. 
What  about  Rose,  and  what  you  told  me  last  night? 
I  believe  you  were  kidding  me  about  Rose." 

She  laughed  at  him.  "  So  that  I  could  gain  your 
attentions  for  myself,  I  suppose,"  she  said.  "  That's 
how  I  should  have  done  it,  isn't  it?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  how  dull  you  are !  "  she  said  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders.  "  If  I  had  wanted  to  put  you  off  Rose, 
should  I  have  told  you  she  liked  somebody  else  bet- 
ter than  you?  It  would  have  made  you  jealous,  and 
all  the  keener.  At  least,  I  should  think  so,  if  you're 
like  everybody  else.  I  told  you  what  I  thought  was 
the  truth,  because  we  were  talking  as  friends.  If  you 
don't  believe  that,  /  don't  mind.  I  can  do  very  well 
without  you  as  a  friend." 

He  grinned  at  her.  "  I  don't  quite  know  what  to 
make  of  all  that,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  do  without  you 
as  a  friend.  I  like  you  far  too  much.  I  say,  I  don't 
believe  Fred  has  found  that  footman.  Do  just  come 
for  a  little  walk." 

"  We'll  go  and  find  the  others  if  you  like,"  she  said 
unconcernedly,  rising  from  her  seat.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  hide  myself  with  you  again,  if  that's  what  you 
want." 

"  Come  along  then,"  he  said,  springing  up  to  join 


LUTTERBOURNE  RECTORY  317 

her,  and  they  went  off  together  in  the  direction  that 
the  others  had  taken. 

The  lawn  merged  into  a  thick  growth  of  trees  and 
shrubs,  and  it  was  some  time  before  they  found  the 
rest  of  the  party  in  the  further  spaces  of  the  gar- 
den. Fortunately  for  Fred's  peace  of  mind  when  he 
hurried  back  from  his  search,  they  were  all  together. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

OLIVIA  SPEAKS 

THE  post  bag  at  Watermeads  was  usually  brought  in 
about  halfway  through  breakfast.  It  was  unlocked 
at  the  table  and  the  letters  handed  out  by  the  head 
of  the  house,  usually  with  appropriate  comment.  Dur- 
ing the  past  few  days  its  coming  had  been  more 
eagerly  looked  for  than  ever  before.  Freda  had  been 
gone  five  days ;  Edward  wrote  to  Elsie  every  day, 
although  he  also  saw  her  every  day;  the  negotiations 
with  Mr.  Blumenthal  were  nearing  completion;  and 
Giles  Bellamy  had  departed  from  Watermeads  a  week 
before,  summoned  to  his  brother,  who  was  ill,  in 
Switzerland.  He  had  become  so  intimate  with  the  Con- 
ways  that  news  was  awaited  from  him  just  as  if  he 
were  a  relation. 

"  One  for  you,  Elsie ;  Lutterbourne  postmark ;  I 
wonder  who  that's  from.  Bill,  bill,  circular,  circular. 
Mr.  Blumenthal  to  me;  that  will  settle  us  up,  I  hope. 
Here's  one  from  Giles  at  last ;  hope  it's  to  say  he's  com- 
ing back.  That's  all.  Fred,  my  boy,  that  young 
woman  of  yours  wants  keeping  up  to  the  mark.  Per- 
haps there's  something  enclosed  in  her  father's  letter." 

There  was  an  enclosure  in  Mr.  Blumenthal's  letter, 
but  not  the  one  that  had  been  suggested.  It  was  a 
cheque  for  a  thousand  pounds,  and  the  missive  that  ac- 
companied it  simply  said  that  he  enclosed  payment  as 

318 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  319 

agreed  for  the  picture  he  had  bought,  and  should  like 
it  packed  and  sent  to  him  at  an  address  in  London  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  should  be  writing  on  other  mat- 
ters shortly. 

"  Well,  that's  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Sydney.  "  A 
cheque  for  a  thousand  pounds  doesn't  come  our  way 
every  day,  does  it?  Still,  I  never  actually  agreed  to 
sell  him  the  picture ;  it  has  never  been  mentioned  in  our 
correspondence.  You  only  told  him  that  you  would 
put  the  offer  before  me,  didn't  you,  mother?  " 

"  I  said  I  did  not  think  it  likely  that  you  would 
care  to  sell  anything,"  said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  He  then 
increased  his  offer  from  five  hundred  pounds  to  a  thou- 
sand, and  sent  me  rather  an  impertinent  message  by 
that  objectionable  woman  Parker  asking  me  not  to 
forget  to  put  it  before  you.  I  have  mentioned  these 
facts  more  than  once  already,  and  the  remembrance 
of  them  is  painful  to  me.  They  are  exactly  as  I  have 
told  them,  and  if  I  could  be  relieved  of  repeating  them 
all  over  again  I  should  be  glad." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  that  was  how  it  was,"  said  Sydney. 
"  Well,  it's  a  very  handsome  price  to  offer,  and  if  he's 
so  anxious  to  have  the  lady  I  think  we'll  send  her  to 
him,  and  keep  his  thousand  pounds.  What  do  you 
say,  children?  " 

"  If  /  might  be  permitted  to  give  my  opinion,"  said 
Mrs.  Conway,  "  I  should  wish  to  point  out  that  his 
money  has  already  been  allocated  to  a  certain  purpose. 
If  the  negotiations  with  Mr.  Blumenthal  are  brought 
to  a  satisfactory  conclusion,  which  I  have  no  reason 
to  suppose  they  will  not  be,  it  was  to  be  used  for 
adapting  Manor  Farm  to — to " 


320  WATERMEADS 

"  To  a  residence  suitable  for  a  family  of  distinction. 
Quite  right,  mother.  It  must  be  put  aside  for  that." 

"  If  it  is  accepted  now,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  it  will 
be  frittered  away.  I  am  not  speaking  without  experi- 
ence. The  money  that  was  received  for  the  sale 
of " 

"  Oh,  surely  we  don't  want  to  go  into  all  that, 
mother !  If  I  pay  the  cheque  in,  I  shall  keep  the  money 
for  what  is  decided — except  a  few  pounds,  perhaps — 
but  no,  I  don't  know  that  we  should  want  to  spend 
any  of  it;  Grandfather  John's  benefits  are  far  from 
being  exhausted  yet.  Still,  I'm  inclined  to  agree  that 
it  would  be  better  not  to  take  it  till  all  the  business 
with  Blumenthal  is  finished.  What  do  you  say,  Fred? 
It  looks  as  if  he  were  offering  this  to  make  things 
easier  for  us.  He  was  quite  certain  that  the  picture 
wasn't  by  Holbein,  wasn't  he,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  shut  her  eyes  wearily,  and  opened 
them  to  say :  "  I  have  already  said  so  several  times. 
I  will  repeat  it  again  if  you  wish." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  like  to  take  advantage  of  his 
generosity.  What  do  you  say,  Fred?" 

Fred  aroused  himself  from  the  dejection  into  which 
he  had  fallen  at  not  having  received  a  letter  from 
Freda  for  three  days  running.  "  Somehow  I  don't 
seem  to  see  that  sort  of  generosity  in  him,"  he  said. 
"  I  should  think  it's  more  likely  that  he  wants  to  get 
something  more  out  of  you  on  our  behalf,  and  thinks 
he'll  tie  your  hands  by  sending  you  the  cheque  now. 
7  don't  want  any  more  than  you've  already  offered, 
father.  You've  given  way  enough  as  it  is.  If  you  can 
do  without  the  money  for  a  bit  I  should  send  the 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  321 

cheque  back  to  him,  and  say  that  you'll  complete  this 
bargain  with  the  other." 

He  spoke  with  some  bitterness.  Apart  from  his 
disappointment  with  Freda,  to  whom  he  had  written 
long  and  loving  letters  every  day  since  her  departure, 
he  was  becoming  more  and  more  incensed  with  the  busi- 
nesslike attitude  of  Freda's  father.  A  delicate  affair 
of  this  sort  ought  to  have  been  settled  with  the  ut- 
most regard  for  the  feelings  of  those  concerned.  But 
it  was  being  conducted  as  if  his  father  needed  to  be 
bound  down  at  every  point,  in  case  he  should  take  ad- 
vantage of  some  loophole  to  escape  the  liabilities  upon 
which  he  had  shown  himself  nothing  but  accommodat- 
ing; while  Fred  himself  was  being  treated  as  if  it  were 
no  affair  of  his  whatever,  and  he  was  just  to  consider 
himself  part  of  the  bargain — and  not  the  most  im- 
portant part  either — that  was  being  struck  on  behalf 
of  Freda.  A  great  deal  of  his  pleasure  at  the  prospect 
of  living  in  a  revivified  Watermeads  had  disappeared 
during  the  process  of  the  negotiations.  He  would  be 
living  there  as  the  pensioner  of  Mr.  Blumenthal,  and 
it  was  becoming  increasingly  plain  to  him  that  Freda 
would  do  little  to  make  that  obligation  sit  more  lightly 
upon  him.  He  thought  that  his  father,  who  was  so 
open-handed  to  others,  though  always  ready  to  skimp 
himself,  felt  the  way  in  which  he  was  being  treated, 
and  he  was  determined,  if  he  could,  to  save  him  further 
annoyance. 

"  Oh,  well,  business  is  business,"  said  Sydney.  "  At 
least,  business  men  are  always  telling  one  so,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  they  do  rather  make  troubles  for 
themselves  in  it  which  they  might  avoid.  I'll  write  and 


322  WATERMEADS 

tell  him  I  will  hold  his  cheque,  and  we'll  settle  up 
everything  together — sale  of  the  picture  and  all.  Now 
let's  see  what  our  friend  Giles  has  to  say." 

Giles  Bellamy  had  written  shortly  to  say  that  his 
brother  was  dead,  after  a  short  illness.  He  was  bring- 
ing his  body  back  to  England,  and  might  have  to  be 
at  home  for  another  week.  After  that  he  should  be 
returning  to  Watermeads. 

That  was  all,  except  messages  of  greeting  to  the 
family,  and  only  Sydney  knew  how  much  was  meant 
by  his  news.  Mrs.  Conway,  it  is  true,  said :  "  Then  Mr. 
Bellamy  is  now  in  the  position  of  an  eldest  son,"  and 
sat  ruminating.  But  Sydney  said  shortly :  "  Oh,  no, 
he  told  me  that  his  brother  had  a  child,"  and  she  had 
by  that  time  reflected  that,  whether  elder  son  or  not, 
Bellamy's  eligibility  was  not  so  marked  as  that  of  Ed- 
ward Probert,  and  did  not  feel  sufficient  interest  in 
him  to  enquire  whether  the  child  was  a  boy  or  a  girl. 

When  Sydney  came  to  think  it  over  by  himself,  he 
could  not  remember  that  Giles  had  said  more  than  his 
brother  had  a  child.  Whether  it  was  a  boy  or  a  girl 
was  likely  to  be  of  some  importance  to  him,  if  his 
father's  property  was  entailed,  as  probably  it  was.  It 
was  of  some  importance  to  Sydney,  too.  He  had 
rushed  with  relief  to  the  idea  of  Giles  marrying  Rose, 
as  a  refuge  from  the  distasteful  thought  of  Jack 
Kirby  marrying  her.  But  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
difference  between  Giles  Bellamy  as  a  landscape  artist, 
even  if  a  rising  one,  and  Giles  Bellamy  as  an  elder  son. 
Supposing  that  it  should  turn  out  that  he  should  take 
his  brother's  place,  then  nobody,  not  even  Sophia 
Raine,  could  say  anything  but  that  he  would  be  a 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  323 

good  match  for  Rose  from  the  material  point  of  view. 
They  would  not  say  so  otherwise,  since  they  had  been 
expecting  her  to  marry  Jack  Kirby. 

Sydney  was  inclined  to  believe  that  Giles's  brother 
had  left  a  little  girl.  It  would  fit  in  so  well ;  and  things 
were  in  the  way  of  fitting  in  well  at  Watermeads  just 
now.  These  favourable  winds  blew  in  cycles,  and  it 
was  very  long  since  they  had  blown  at  all.  It  was 
highly  improbable  that  they  had  blown  themselves  out 
yet.  Yes,  the  little  Bellamy  was  almost  bound  to  be 
a  niece  and  not  a  nephew.  And  Rose  was  almost  bound 
to  fall  in  love  with  Giles,  if  he  once  showed  her  that 
he  was  in  love  with  her.  She  certainly  liked  him,  very 
much  indeed — all  of  them  did  at  Watermeads.  Syd- 
ney especially  had  found  him  a  more  agreeable  com- 
panion even  than  Edward  Probert,  whom  he  also 
liked. 

As  for  the  detested  Jack  Kirby — that  menace 
seemed  to  be  fading  away.  Nothing  had  happened  on 
that  evening  at  Prittlewell,  which  had  seemed  to  him 
to  have  been  arranged  to  the  end  that  the  thing  he 
dreaded  might  happen.  And  at  Lutterbourne  on  the 
following  day,  when  Jack  Kirby  had  pushed  himself 
in  among  them,  Sydney  had  had  him  under  his  eye  the 
whole  time,  except  when  he  had  been  drinking  his  tea 
with  Fred  and  Freda.  He  had  talked  and  laughed  in 
his  usual  free  self-satisfied  manner,  with  Rose  and  all 
the  rest  of  them,  but  he  had  made  no  attempt  to  get 
Rose  to  go  away  with  him  alone,  as  he  had  so  often 
done  at  Watermeads,  and  had  said  goodbye  with  no 
announcement  of  another  visit  shortly.  Nor  had  any- 
thing been  seen  of  him  since.  Sydney  understood  that 


324  WATERMEADS 

he  .had  left  Prittlewell,  and  might  not  be  down  again 
for  some  time.  Such  pieces  of  news  filtered  through. 
And  yet  it  had  seemed  to  be  settled,  from  what  Lord 
Kirby  had  let  out,  that  he  would  be  spending  some 
time  at  Prittlewell,  and  chiefly  on  account  of  bring- 
ing his  courtship  of  Rose  to  an  end. 

Well,  if  he  still  wanted  her,  but  was  inclined  to  put 
off  his  wooing,  he  might  now  find  that  whatever  chance 
he  had  seemed  to  have  was  gone,  and  a  better  man 
than  he  had  taken  his  place.  Sydney  hoped  that  Giles 
Bellamy  would  not  tarry.  Elder  or  younger  son, 
whichever  he  might  be,  he  would  be  welcome.  He  was 
a  man,  and  one  to  whom  a  father  might  well  trust 
his  daughter's  happiness. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  no  games  were  played  at  Water- 
meads  on  Sundays.  Mrs.  Conway,  who  had  not  played 
games  since  her  childhood,  had  made  this  rule  when 
her  own  children  were  very  small,  and  often  referred 
to  it,  as  being  in  the  nature  of  a  feather  in  her 
spiritual  cap.  There  was  no  narrowness  of  mind  in 
it,  she  was  wont  to  explain.  She  would  not  say  that 
games  on  Sunday  were  wrong — except  cards  and  bil- 
liards— nor  that  the  Christian  Sunday  should  be  kept 
like  the  Jewish  Sabbath.  But  it  was  better  to  mark 
one  day  in  seven  off  from  the  rest,  and  by  devoting 
Sunday  to  thoughts  suitable  to  the  day,  and  refrain- 
ing from  ordinary  amusements,  the  rest  of  the  week 
would  be  all  the  brighter.  This  consolation  was  some- 
times needed  by  the  active-minded  active-bodied  fam- 
ily to  whom  it  was  offered,  when  Sunday  afternoon 
was  hanging  heavy  on  their  hands ;  but  on  this  partic- 
ular Sunday  afternoon  the  air  of  pause  and  quietness 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  325 

was  agreeable  to  most  of  them  after  the  excitements 
they  had  recently  gone  through. 

Olivia  was  the  only  visitor  to  the  house,  and  she  was 
now  again  so  much  a  part  of  the  family  that  she  was 
hardly  like  a  visitor.  She  came  up  from  her  Sunday- 
school  and  stayed  until  it  was  time  to  go  home  to  give 
her  father  his  tea.  Fred,  who  was  feeling  unhappy, 
and  in  need  of  some  distraction  of  mind,  walked  across 
the  park  with  her.  It  was  in  his  mind  that  he  might 
talk  to  her  about  Freda,  to  whom  she  had  always 
shown  herself  courteous  and  kind,  although  Freda  had 
not  liked  her  and  had  taken  no  particular  pains  to 
hide  the  fact.  He  found  it  difficult  to  talk  to  Elsie 
and  Rose  about  Freda.  They  said  nothing  against 
her,  and  sometimes  succeeded  in  saying  something 
nice  about  her;  but  it  was  becoming  plain  to  him  that 
they  did  not  want  to  talk  about  her  at  all,  and  it 
was  only  by  resolutely  shutting  his  eyes  to  the  ob- 
vious inference  from  that  fact  that  he  could  avoid  an 
unpleasant  shock  to  his  sensibilities. 

They  went  through  the  garden  and  out  into  the 
park  through  a  little  hand  gate.  So  far  neither  of 
them  had  spoken.  Olivia  was  one  of  those  whose  very 
silence  is  companionable,  and  Fred,  busy  with  his 
thoughts,  was  already  soothed  by  it.  He  had  known 
her  so  intimately  and  for  so  long  that  there  was  no 
necessity  to  keep  up  a  flow  of  chatter  with  her,  as  with 
other  girls.  She  looked  beautiful  in  her  graceful  free- 
moving  youth — far  more  beautiful,  if  he  could  only 
have  seen  it,  than  Freda,  whose  looks  depended  not 
upon  the  quiet  soul  that  was  in  her,  as  did  Olivia's 
in  some  measure,  but  upon  her  mood  of  the  moment, 


326  WATERMEADS 

and  more  than  a  little  on  the  way  she  was  dressed. 
Olivia  wore  a  white  frock  and  a  big  black  hat.  Her 
fine  tapering  hands  were  ungloved,  and  she  held  some 
roses  in  one  of  them,  but  needed  to  hold  nothing  to 
give  them  employment.  A  fair  indication  of  char- 
acter may  be  drawn  from  the  way  hands  are  carried 
when  they  have  nothing  to  do. 

Olivia  spoke  first,  and  sympathetically  to  the  point, 
while  Fred  was  searching  for  an  opening  phrase. 
"  This  is  rather  a  dull  Sunday  for  you,  I'm  afraid. 
One  seems  to  miss  people  one  loves  more  on  Sunday 
than  on  other  days.  I  used  to  miss  father  frightfully 
on  Sundays,  when  I  first  went  abroad.  I'm  sure  you 
must  be  missing  Freda." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Fred.  "  And  there's  no  second 
post  on  Sundays,  which  makes  it  worse.  I've  only  had 
one  letter  from  her  since  she  went  away,  and  I  can't 
think  why." 

It  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  make  some  light 
excuse  for  Freda's  silence,  which  would  have  carried 
with  it  no  consolation;  but  that  was  not  Olivia's  way. 
"  It  is  a  long  time  to  be  without  a  letter,"  she  said, 
"  even  if  you  do  get  one  tomorrow  morning.  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  being  bothered  at  not  hearing  from 
her.  Still,  one  does  learn  to  make  excuses  for  people 
who  don't  write  when  you  think  they  ought  to.  No 
two  people  are  quite  alike  in  the  way  they  look  upon 
their  duties  as  correspondents." 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  if  you  loved  somebody 
very  much  you'd  have  wanted  to  write  to  them,"  said 
Fred,  out  of  the  bitterness  of  his  heart. 

"  I  know.     That's  just  what  one  does  think  when 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  327 

one  feels  sore  at  not  hearing.  But  it  doesn't  follow 
really."  She  smiled  at  him.  "  It  would  with  you,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  think  it  would  with  me ;  perhaps  it  would 
with  most  people.  But  one  knows  from  one's  own  ex- 
perience that  there  are  exceptions.  You  will  forget 
all  about  Freda's  silence  when  you  do  hear  from  her, 
Fred." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  get  a  letter  tomorrow  all  right,"  he 
said  more  cheerfully.  "  I  ought  not  to  let  myself  feel 
annoyed  with  her.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  a  partic- 
ular failing  of  mine  to  be  irritable.  I  never  used  to 
think  it  was.  I  suppose  when  one  loves  somebody  very 
much  one  is  apt  to  be  exacting.  All  sorts  of  things 
upset  one,  and  yet  when  they  come  to  be  explained 
there's  nothing  in  them." 

Olivia  knew  that  irritability  was  not  at  all  a  failing 
of  Fred's,  and  she  knew  how  much  reason  Freda  had 
given  him  for  being  constantly  under  its  sway.  She 
also  knew  something  about  Freda  that  she  had  not 
breathed  a  hint  of  to  anybody,  and  she  had  been  very 
deeply  exercised  in  her  mind  as  to  what  she  ought  to 
do  about  it.  She  had  been  walking  in  the  wooded  part 
of  the  garden  at  Lutterbourne  Rectory  with  Bobby, 
a  little  in  advance  of  the  rest,  just  before  Jack  Kirby 
and  Freda  had  joined  them,  and  she  had  seen  what 
she  had  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  shrubs,  though 
nobody  else  had  seen  anything. 

Now,  suddenly,  her  duty  in  the  matter  seemed  to  be 
plain.  Knowing  what  she  knew,  Fred's  speech  seemed 
to  her  infinitely  pathetic.  He  was  constantly  being 
upset  by  signs  of  Freda's  essential  indifference  to  him, 
of  which  Olivia,  after  what  she  had  seen,  had  no  doubt 


328  WATERMEADS 

whatever;  and  she  was  very  clever  in  explaining  them 
away.  That  was  what  it  had  meant,  though  he  was  far 
from  knowing  it.  Wasn't  it  better  to  give  him  a  hint 
of  the  truth,  however  painful  it  might  be  to  him,  than 
to  go  on  as  she  had  begun,  encouraging  him  to  think 
that  Freda  loved  him  as  he  loved  her?  She  did  not 
ask  herself  whether  it  was  possible  for  her  to  tell  him 
the  damning  proof  she  had  of  Freda's  unfaithfulness 
to  him,  in  the  kisses  she  had  allowed  Jack  Kirby  to 
shower  on  her,  and  had  in  some  measure  at  least  re- 
turned; nor  whether  what  she  could  find  words  to  say 
to  him  would  do  anything  to  break  the  illusion  he  was 
under.  She  simply  felt  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep 
silence  while  he,  her  friend,  was  being  so  cruelly  de- 
ceived. What  would  come  of  it  must  come;  but  she 
saw  nothing  but  increasing  unhappiness  for  him  in  the 
path  he  was  treading.  She  would  at  least  set  up  her 
warning  in  it. 

"  Fred,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath.  "  We 
are  very  old  friends,  you  and  I.  I  must  say  something 
to  you  because  of  that  that  I  hate  saying.  I  think 
that  all  the  little  things  that  hurt  you — and  some  of 
them  aren't  little  things — ought  not  to  happen,  and 
wouldn't  happen  if  she  loved  you  as  you  love  her. 
You  can't  imagine  them  happening  with  Elsie  and  Ed- 
ward. I  don't  believe  that  the  explanations  she  gives 
you,  and  that  satisfy  you  for  the  moment,  are  always 
true  ones.  I  think  she  does  just  what  she  likes,  and 
makes  up  any  excuse  that  she  thinks  will  satisfy  you. 
She  doesn't  treat  you  as  she  should." 

Fred's  surprise  at  this  speech  was  so  great,  that  for 
the  moment  he  could  not  rally  his  thoughts  to  it.  Its 


OLIVIA   SPEAKS  329 

significance,  as  spoken  by  Olivia,  passed  him  by;  it 
fitted  in  only  too  well  with  what  he  was  feeling  about 
Freda  himself,  though  he  was  doing  all  he  could  to 
keep  off  the  convictions  that  were  crowding  in  upon 
him.  "  She  often  makes  me  very  unhappy,*'  he  said. 
"  But  she  has  made  me  very  happy,  too.  I  can't  not 
trust  her.  That  would  be  the  end  of  everything." 

Olivia  was  at  a  loss  now.  She  had  spoken  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  and  without  any  definite  end 
in  view,  except  to  relieve  herself  of  the  burden  of  mak- 
ing false  excuses,  and  to  set  up  her  warning  for  him. 
But  how  could  that  warning  be  made  effective,  unless 
she  were  to  tell  him  what  she  had  seen?  When  she  had 
once  spoken,  she  knew  that  she  could  not  do  that,  at 
least  now.  It  would  cover  her  with  shame.  Not  even 
for  Fred's  sake  could  she  do  it,  though  she  wanted  so 
much  to  help  him.  Then  how  was  she  to  open  his 
eyes  ? 

She  spoke  hurriedly.  "  I  have  seen  many  things," 
she  said,  "  and  so  have  Elsie  and  Rose,  and  others,  too, 
which  make  me  sure  that  it  is  Watermeads  she  wants, 
Fred,  and  not  you.  It  sounds  a  horrid  thing  to  say, 
and  you  know  that  I  wouldn't  say  it  unless  I  were 
quite  certain.  I  tried — we  all  tried — to  be  nice  to  her, 
when  she  first  came;  we  felt  that  we  must  trust  her, 
just  as  you  feel.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  She  hates  me 
— I  don't  know  why — and  she  doesn't  like  either  Elsie 
or  Rose.  She  doesn't  like  anybody  but  herself.  She 
isn't  worthy  of  you,  Fred." 

Fred  had  recovered  himself  now.  "  What  are  you 
saying,  Olivia?"  he  asked,  in  a  hard  voice.  "I  love 
Freda,  and  she  is  going  to  be  my  wife.  You  and  she 


330  WATERMEADS 

don't  like  one  another — I  know  that — but  you  ought 
not  to  speak  of  her  like  that  to  me." 

"  How  does  she  speak  to  you  of  me,  Fred?  "  she 
asked  quietly. 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  have  never  heard  her 
say  anything  against  you  without  protesting,"  he 
said.  "  But  even  if  she  has,  it's  quite  different.  If 
it  were  anybody  else  who  had  said  what  you  have — 
except  perhaps  Elsie  or  Rose — I  should  never  have 
spoken  to  them  again.  Please  don't  say  that  sort  of 
thing  again." 

They  had  come  to  the  gate  leading  to  the  Vicarage 
garden.  Olivia  put  her  hand  upon  it  and  stood  fac- 
ing him.  She  felt  no  irritation  against  him  for  the 
manner  in  which  he  had  spoken,  but  only  a  deep  pity 
for  him.  "  Dear  Fred,"  she  said,  "  it  hasn't  been 
easy  to  say  what  I  have,  but  I  know  that  I  was  right 
in  saying  it,  because  of  our  old  friendship.  If  you 
will  think  it  over,  you  will  know  that  I  shouldn't  have 
said  anything  like  that  just  because  she  and  I  don't 
get  on  well  together.  It  wouldn't  be  me  to  do  it.  I 
know  that  you  are  very  unhappy,  and  I  know  that  you 
have  reason  to  be  unhappy.  It  is  because  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  more  unhappy  still  that  I  have  spoken. 
Goodbye ! " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  but  he  did  not  take  it.  He 
turned  and  left  her  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORNING 

WHEN  Fred  turned  away  from  Olivia  at  the  gate  of 
the  Vicarage,  he  did  not  go  home  again,  but  crossed 
the  river  and  went  through  meadows  and  country  lanes 
until  he  reached  the  beech  woods  that  rose  above 
Watermeads  to  the  north.  There  he  spent  some  hours, 
wandering  about  in  complete  solitude,  and  sometimes 
sitting  at  the  roots  of  a  great  tree,  poking  the  red 
beech  mast  with  his  stick,  his  face  always  set  in  de- 
jection, and  seldom  raised  to  the  bright  green  roof 
above  his  head. 

Olivia's  words  had  bitten  in  to  him.  At  first,  as  he 
walked  quickly  away  from  her  towards  the  distant 
shelter  of  the  woods,  he  was  angry.  What  right  had 
she  to  speak  like  that?  Didn't  she  know  that  to  re- 
veal her  dislike  for  Freda  in  that  way  would  make  her 
own  position  impossible,  since  they  would  be  living  side 
by  side,  perhaps  for  years  to  come?  He  would  keep 
it  from  Freda,  of  course,  but  how  could  he  overlook 
it  himself,  as  Freda's  husband?  It  would  always  be 
between  them.  And  what  was  it  that  she  had  spoken 
for,  except  to  express  the  same  sort  of  dislike  against 
Freda  that  Freda  had  expressed  against  her,  and  that 
he  had  refused  to  listen  to,  even  from  Freda.  He  sup- 
posed that  these  mutual  jealousies,  or  whatever  one 
liked  to  call  them,  were  not  uncommon  amongst  girls; 

331 


332  WATERMEADS 

Freda  felt  them,  and  so,  unfortunately,  did  Elsie  and 
Rose.  But  it  was  not  like  Olivia  to  express  them. 

No,  it  was  not  like  her.  Almost  unwillingly  he  came 
to  recognise  that  her  speech  to  him  could  have  been 
dictated  by  no  such  feeling.  He  knew  her  far  too  well 
to  make  it  possible  for  him  to  believe  it. 

The  conviction  only  added  to  his  distress.  It  was 
not  Olivia  whom  he  wanted  to  think  about,  but  she  re- 
mained to  him,  when  his  anger  against  her  had  died 
away,  a  quiet  insistent  voice,  which  only  too  surely 
strengthened  and  pointed  what  another  voice  within 
himself  had  been  striving  to  say,  if  he  would  only  listen 
to  it,  now  for  many  days  past.  He  was  still  trying 
to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  it,  not  yet  ready  to  allow  it  to 
be  heard,  and  to  balance  what  it  had  to  say  against 
the  proofs  he  clung  to  that  it  was  a  lying  voice.  All 
his  unhappy  thoughts  were  gropings  amongst  mem- 
ories to  find  support  for  the  wished-for  conviction  that 
Freda  loved  him.  He  would  admit  the  force  of  no  evi- 
dence to  the  contrary;  but  the  evidence  was  becoming 
increasingly  vocal,  and  to  combat  it  piece  by  piece 
strained  his  faith  to  the  breaking  point.  When  at 
last,  as  dusk  was  falling,  he  made  his  way  homewards, 
he  had  reached  no  conclusion ;  the  one  he  had  wished 
to  reach  was  further  from  him  than  before,  and  the 
opposing  one  he  was  still  keeping  at  bay.  But  he  was 
more  unhappy  than  he  had  ever  been,  and  when  he 
reached  home  went  straight  up  to  his  room,  feeling 
physically  ill,  and  unable  to  play  his  part  in  the  life 
of  his  family. 

When  Olivia  had  spoken  as  she  had,  and  gone  in- 
doors, she  had  a  revulsion  of  feeling  which  caused 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN    333 

her  to  ask  herself  why  she  had  spoken  at  all.  What 
good  had  she  done?  What  good  could  she  have  ex- 
pected to  do?  Unless  she  had  been  prepared  to  tell 
Fred  what  she  had  seen  in  the  Lutterbourne  garden, 
he  could  only  have  taken  her  warning  as  an  expres- 
sion of  dislike  towards  Freda,  and  it  was  natural  that 
he  should  have  rejected  it  as  he  had  done. 

But  she  had  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  speak  out,  and 
while  she  did  not  examine  herself  as  to  the  source  of 
that  impulse  she  yet  knew  that  it  had  been  a  right  one, 
and  by  and  by  she  was  asking  herself  what  she  could 
do  further.  For  she  felt  more  strongly  than  ever  that 
Fred  was  preparing  for  himself  a  lifetime  of  unhap- 
piness,  and  it  was  the  duty  of  his  friends  to  save  him, 
if  they  could,  while  there  was  yet  time. 

One  thing  became  clear.  She  need  no  longer  keep 
to  herself  what  she  had  seen.  She  could  tell  it  at  least 
to  Elsie  and  Rose,  and  they  three  could  take  counsel 
together.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  share  the  base  secret, 
which  seemed  to  stain  her  mind  whenever  its  image 
came  before  her. 

She  told  them  as  they  walked  slowly  home  from 
church  together  in  the  falling  darkness,  just  at  the 
time  when  Fred  was  leaving  the  sylvan  chapel  of  his 
unhappy  thoughts,  buoying  himself  up  with  memories 
of  love  passages  between  himself  and  Freda,  but  still 
sinking  under  the  weight  of  other  memories. 

To  Elsie,  who  had  been  feeding  on  thoughts  of  love 
so  pure  and  untroubled,  the  disclosure  was  a  stinging 
shameful  blow.  To  Rose  also  it  was  painful  hearing, 
about  the  man  who  had  certainly  made  love  to  her,  up 
to  the  very  time  of  his  treachery,  although  the  qual- 


334  WATERMEADS 

ity  of  his  love  had  been  suspect  from  the  first.  Olivia 
had  not  ignored  the  shock  that  it  might  be  to  her  to 
hear  of  Jack  Kirby's  lightness ;  but  with  her  clear  eyes 
she  had  seen  pretty  well  how  matters  stood  with  Rose, 
in  spite  of  the  silence  that  had  been  religiously  kept 
between  the  three  girls.  She  would  do  best  to  keep 
up  that  pretence  of  there  being  nothing  between  her 
and  Jack  Kirby,  and  if  Rose  was  still  in  doubt  about 
him,  the  revelation  of  what  he  was  would  clear  her 
thoughts ;  Olivia  would  be  helping  Rose  as  well  as  Fred 
by  her  disclosure. 

Rose  spoke  first.  "  How  horrid  and  disgusting ! " 
she  exclaimed  indignantly.  "  Why,  he  had  only  seen 
her  for  the  first  time  the  night  before ! " 

"  It  must  have  begun  then,"  said  Elsie,  after  a  short 
pause.  "  It's  all  horrid,  and  we  needn't  think  too 
much  about  it.  It  makes  her  what  we  have  felt  her 
to  be,  and  it's  what  she  is  that  matters." 

Rose  wrenched  her  mind  away  from  the  disgust  and 
contempt  she  was  feeling  against  Jack,  and  turned  it 
on  to  Freda.  "  Fred  couldn't  marry  her  if  he  knew," 
she  said.  "  He  ought  not  to  marry  her.  I'm  glad  it 
happened.  There's  no  doubt  about  her  now,  but  we 
have  all  ready  known  what  she  is  for  a  long  time,  ex- 
cept poor  Fred." 

But  who  was  to  tell  Fred?  As  they  talked  it  over, 
the  disclination  of  all  three  of  them  to  do  so  became 
stronger.  Face  to  face  with  a  man's  love  for  a  girl 
who  was  unworthy  of  him  they  felt  instinctively  that 
there  were  aspects  of  it  which  they  could  not  gauge. 
They  shrank  from  the  thought  of  how  Fred  would  take 
the  disclosure.  Supposing  he  were  to  hear  it,  and  still 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN   335 

go  on!  None  of  them  formulated  this  unpleasant 
dread,  but  it  was  there  in  the  background  of  their 
minds. 

It  was  Rose  who  told  her  father  that  evening.  She 
had  taken  the  duty  upon  her.  She  would  say  noth- 
ing that  would  imply  a  personal  interest  in  what  had 
happened,  but  she  divined  now  how  unhappy  the  fear 
of  an  attachment  on  her  part  had  made  him,  and  she 
wanted  him  to  know  that  the  fear  was  groundless,  and 
to  know  it  thus  indirectly  from  her. 

He  heard  her  with  a  grave  face,  and  kissed  her  be- 
fore he  spoke,  in  token  that  the  shadow  between  them 
was  cleared  away.  "  I  can't  say  I'm  surprised,"  he 
said.  "  I  was  doubtful  about  her  from  the  very  first, 
but  wouldn't  admit  it  to  myself,  and  made  the  best 
of  her.  But  it  has  become  plainer  and  plainer  to  me 
that  she  only  accepted  Fred  because  she  thought  him 
a  good  match,  and  that  she  doesn't  really  care  for 
him." 

"  But  Fred  isn't  a  good  match,  is  he?  "  said  Rose, 
— "  in  that  sort  of  way,  I  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  ,one  doesn't  see  these  things  until  one  is 
put  upon  the  track.  People  like  that  want  something 
that  their  money  alone  can't  give  them.  It  wouldn't 
occur  to  one  that  they  could  expect  to  get  anything 
particular  out  of  us,  as  we  are  now.  But  now  I  know 
Mr.  Blumenthal,  from  the  dealings  I've  had  with  him, 
I  can  see  how  it  goes  with  him.  With  the  money  he's 
prepared  to  spend,  which  probably  isn't  enough  for 
him  to  miss,  Freda  would  have  a  good  deal  more  here 
of  what  they  want  than  she  could  get  by  marrying 
somebody  of  their  own  sort.  He  sees  that,  I  know,  and 


336  WATERMEADS 

I'm  afraid  it's  only  too  plain  that  she  sees  it,  too,  and 
that  that's  why  she  accepted  Fred." 

"  She  must  have  loved  him  a  little — surely !  " 

"  I  don't  know.  She  can't  have  helped  liking  him. 
I  doubt  whether  a  girl  like  that  has  it  in  her  to  love 
anybody  much.  She  must  be  thinking  of  what  she  can 
get  out  of  them  all  the  time." 

"  But,  father  dear,  how  could  she  let — Mr.  Kirby 
treat  her  like  that?" 

The  *  Mr.  Kirby '  instead  of  the  *  Jack '  which  had 
never  failed  to  offend  his  ears  every  time  it  had  been 
spoken,  fell  gratefully  on  them.  "  Mr.  Kirby,"  he  said, 
"  would  be  a  great  feather  in  her  cap,  if  she  could 
catch  him.  She'd  throw  over  Fred  tomorrow.  If  it 
has  gone  as  far  as  this  shows  it  has,  she  probably  will 
throw  him  over  tomorrow.  Very  likely  that's  what  her 
silence  means.  When  Fred  does  hear  from  her  it  will 
be  to  say  that  she  finds  she  doesn't  love  him  enough, 
or  some  such  nonsense;  anyhow,  to  break  it  off." 

"  Oh,  if  she  only  would !  That  would  be  the  very 
best  thing  that  could  happen." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  would.  But  it  will  be  a  blow  to  poor 
old  Fred." 

"  Shall  you  say  anything  to  him  about  what  Olivia 
saw,  father?  " 

"  Not  till  after  he  has  had  her  letter.  If  she  doesn't 
write  what  I  think  she  will, — well,  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  tell  him.  We'll  see  what  happens." 

Freda's  letter  came  the  next  morning.  She  had  been 
thinking  it  all  over,  she  wrote,  and  although  she  hated 
to  give  him  pain,  she  thought  it  better  to  be  truthful 
and  say  that  she  had  found  out  she  didn't  love  him 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN    337 

enough  to  marry  him.  She  had  thought  she  did  at 
first,  and  would  take  all  the  blame  for  the  mistake. 
But  he  had  often  made  her  unhappy,  by  the  way  he 
hadn't  trusted  her,  and  although  she  had  been  patient 
and  put  his  mistakes  right  many  times,  she  felt  that 
she  could  not  go  on  doing  that  for  ever,  and  they 
must  grow  further  apart  instead  of  coming  nearer  to- 
gether. It  also,  it  appeared,  had  made  her  unhappy 
to  find  that  so  much  was  expected  at  Watermeads  to 
be  done  by  her  father.  It  was  plain  to  her  now  that 
she  herself  counted  for  very  little.  Nobody  really  liked 
her,  and  she  wanted  affection  above  all  things,  and 
couldn't  live  without  it.  She  had  done  all  she  could 
herself  to  please  them,  but  supposed  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  them  to  regard  her  apart  from  her  father's 
money,  and  of  course,  if  that  was  the  general  feeling 
about  her,  nothing  she  could  have  done  would  have 
helped  matters  at  all.  But  it  had  hurt  her  very  much, 
and  as  the  arrangement  that  had  been  suggested  was 
that  the  whole  family  should  live  next  door  to  them, 
when  she  was  married,  she  would  never  be  able  to  get 
rid  of  this  feeling,  which  would  grow  worse  instead  of 
better. 

This  was  the  gist  of  her  letter,  which  ended  on  a 
note  of  forgiveness  for  all  the  wrong  that  had  been 
done  to  her,  and  of  hope  that  if  ever  she  and  Fred  did 
meet  again  they  would  meet  as  friends.  He  must 
understand,  however,  that  her  decision  was  final. 

Fred  began  to  read  this  precious  missive  at  the 
breakfast  table,  but  had  not  gone  far  with  it  before  he 
rose  and  left  the  room,  to  be  alone  with  his  pain. 

It  was  severe  enough,  but  he  was  more  prepared  for 


338  WATERMEADS 

the  news  than  he  had  imagined,  and  the  good  stuff  in 
him  enabled  him  to  bear  it  with  fortitude.  Even  as  he 
read  the  sentences  that  showed  the  feline  nature  of  the 
girl  he  had  loved,  above  every  other  quality  in  her,  his 
illusions  began  to  drop  away  from  him.  She  was  like 
that.  Olivia  had  put  it  plainly,  and  he  had  seen  it, 
too,  thought  he  had  shut  his  eyes  to  it.  He  had  fallen 
in  love  with  a  face  and  a  form,  and  endowed  their 
owner  with  attributes  which  nothing  she  had  ever 
shown  him  had  proved  her  to  possess.  This  vigorous 
shake  was  already  separating  the  two  elements  that 
were  necessary  for  love.  The  face  and  form  remained 
to  wound  his  thoughts  whenever  he  thought  of  them 
and  longed  for  them.  But  such  longing  was  weakness 
to  be  resisted.  Nothing  else  in  Freda  was  worthy  of 
love,  and  even  as  his  heart  throbbed  its  worst  he  was 
already  turning  away  from  her  with  something  very 
like  contempt  for  what  she  essentially  was,  and  the 
healing  process  had  begun. 

He  went  to  find  his  father.  Sydney  looked  at  him 
with  a  slight  apprehension.  He  knew  well  enough 
what  had  happened,  and  was  glad  of  it,  but  feared  how 
Fred  might  be  taking  it.  But  a  glance  at  his  face  re- 
assured him.  He  had  been  rather  weak  under  the  in- 
fluence of  his  passion,  but  the  strength  in  him  would 
enable  him  to  throw  it  off. 

"  Well,  dear  old  boy,"  said  Sydney,  when  he  had  read 
the  letter,  not  without  muttered  expressions  of  impa- 
tience, "  you'll  know  how  sorry  I  am  for  you  without 
my  having  to  say  it.  But  I'm  damn  glad,  too.  Yes, 
damned  glad.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  something  about 
her." 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN    339 

He  told  him,  and  Fred  laughed  bitterly  at  the  re- 
cital. "  When  I  read  what  she  wrote  there,"  he  said, 
"  it  did  come  to  my  mind  to  write  back  and  tell  her 
that  she  was  mistaken  about  me,  and  that  I  did  trust 
her,  and  always  should.  I'm  glad  I  felt  I  couldn't  do 
that,  before  you  had  told  me  what  you  have.  To  think 
of  what  she  said  to  me  about  that  fellow  only  the  night 
before!  No,  I  knew  I  couldn't  trust  her,  though  I 
didn't  know  why.  We'll  never  let  him  show  his  face 
here  again — the  blackguard !  Did  you  say  it  was  Rose 
who  told  you?  What  does  she  feel  about  it?" 

"  Oh,  Rose  is  all  right.  I  think  one  might  have 
trusted  Rose  a  bit  more  than  one  did  about  him.  I 
don't  believe  it  would  ever  have  come  to  anything,  even 
if  this  hadn't  happened.  She'd  have  seen  through  him. 
Well,  dear  old  boy,  it's  hard  for  you,  but  you're  well 
out  of  it.  A  girl  who  would  let  herself  be  kissed  like 
that!  I  never  really  liked  her,  and  latterly  I'd  come 
definitely  not  to  like  her,  though  I  tried  not  to  show 
it.  One  felt  she  wasn't  straight." 

This  was  too  much  for  Fred  just  at  present.  He 
said :  "  Well,  it's  done  with  now.  I  shan't  answer  her 
letter.  I  don't  like  the  things  she  says  of  all  of  you. 
There  was  no  necessity  for  it,  as  she  was  breaking  off. 
She  might  have  let  me  down  easier;  but  perhaps  it's 
just  as  well.  I  might  have  wanted  to  mend  it,  and  now 
I  don't.  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  her  just  yet 
awhile.  I  did  love  her,  and  I  suppose  I  do  still  in  a 
sort  of  way.  It  hurts  like  the  devil;  but  I  shall  get 
over  it." 

When  the  news  was  broken  to  Mrs.  Con  way,  she 
said  that  it  was  what  she  had  expected  from  the  be- 


340  WATERMEADS 

ginning.  "  When  she  came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me," 
she  said,  "  I  felt  that  it  was  a  Judas  kiss.  I  felt  a 
shudder  run  down  my  spine.  I  said  to  myself :  '  Is  this 
the  girl  my  son  has  brought  me  to  love  as  a  daughter  ?  ' 
You  will  all  do  me  the  justice  to  remember  that  I  hid 
my  feelings.  I  saw  you  all  making  much  of  her,  de- 
ceived by  her  surface  attractions,  which  to  me  meant 
nothing,  and  less  than  nothing,  and  I  asked  myself 
whether  you  had  all  been  stricken  blind." 

"  But,  mother  dear !  "  expostulated  Elsie,  "  we  all 
had  to  be  nice  to  her  at  first.  We  didn't  know  what 
she  was  like,  and  she  did  try  to  make  herself  agree- 
able. I  think  we  all  saw  through  her  pretty  quickly." 

"  Very  well,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  in  a  tone  of 
patient  forbearance.  "  Then  we  will  say  that  nobody 
was  deceived  but  myself.  I  have  no  wish  to  bandy 
words,  and,  as  you  are  now  engaged,  you  naturally 
know  more  about  such  things  than  your  own  mother. 
We  need  say  no  more  about  it ;  but  what  I  should  wish 
to  know,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  ask,  is  what  be- 
comes of  our  plans  about  Manor  Farm,  and  what  it 
is  proposed  to  do  about  Mr.  Blumenthal's  cheque  for 
the  Holbein." 

"  I  shall  send  it  back,"  said  Sydney.  "  As  for 
Manor  Farm,  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  nothing  doing. 
I'm  sorry,  because  I  had  looked  forward  to  all  that, 
and  I  think  we  should  have  been  better  off  there  than 
here.  However,  we  must  just  go  on  as  before,  and 
trust  to  something  happening  to  keep  us  going.  After 
all,  it's  rather  a  relief  not  to  owe  anything  to  Mr. 
Blumcnthal." 

"  If  I  might  be  allowed  to  make  a  suggestion,"  said 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN   341 

Mrs.  Conway,  still  speaking  with  an  air  of  infinite  pa- 
tience and  self-renouncement,  "  it  would  be  that  Mr. 
Blumenthal's  cheque  should  not  be  returned  to  him 
without  further  consideration.  I  am  wholly  against 
the  sale  of  valuables  from  this  house,  as  I  have  often 
said  before.  Pictures  and  other  treasures  are  disposed 
of,  and " 

"  And  the  money  that  they  fetch  is  disposed  of 
too,"  interrupted  Sydney.  "  Oh,  yes,  mother,  we  know 
all  about  that.  Well,  in  this  case  we  won't  dispose  of 
the  picture.  I'm  very  glad  I  didn't  pay  in  the  cheque. 
I  don't  want  to  be  beholden  to  Mr.  Blumenthal  for 
anything." 

Mrs.  Conway  shut  her  eyes,  and  opened  them  again. 
"  If  I  might  sometimes  be  permitted  to  continue  a 
speech !  "  she  suggested.  "  What  I  was  about  to  say 
when  you  interrupted  me,  Sydney,  was  that  in  this  one 
instance  the  picture  is  not  one  that  we  particularly 
value.  I  for  one,  though  I  have  not  pressed  the  view, 
have  always  had  a  strong  dislike  for  the  type  of  face 
it  represents,  and  have  often  felt  uncomfortable  at 
looking  up  and  finding  the  eyes  fixed  upon  me.  How- 
ever, that  is  not  the  point.  What  I  should  wish  to 
point  out  is  that  Mr.  Blumenthal,  being  what  he  is, 
is  not  likely  to  have  offered  a  considerable  sum  of 
money  for  something  of  which  he  does  not  know  the 
value.  He  struck  me  as  being  remarkably  astute  in 
such  matters — in  some  ways  unpleasantly  so — and  I 
personally  can  see  no  obligation  entered  into  by  ac- 
cepting the  price  he  is  ready  to  pay  for  something  we 
are  ready  to  sell.  I  might  just  as  well  say  that  I  was 
under  an  obligation  to  the  butcher  who  buys  a  sheep 


342  WATERMEADS 

from  me,  or  a  lamb,  at  the  market  price,  or  to  the 
dairyman  who " 

"  Yes,  it's  a  good  parallel,  mother.  You  needn't 
press  it.  If  it  was  purely  a  matter  of  business  with 

Blumenthal !  Perhaps  it  may  be,  but  it  would  be 

going  directly  against  the  principle  I've  always 
adopted  in  selling  things,  and  that  you  have  felt  at 
least  as  strongly  as  I  have.  We  don't  want  to  sell 
pictures  or  anything  else  unless  we're  in  actual  need  of 
money  that  we  can't  get  elsewhere.  We're  not  in  ac- 
tual need  of  money  just  now,  though  we  may  be  in  a 
year  or  so's  time,  unless  affairs  improve.  We  were  go- 
ing to  use  Blumenthal's  thousand  pounds  for  adapting 
Manor  Farm.  As  we're  not  going  to  adapt  it,  but  go 
on  living  here,  I  think  we  won't  sell  the  picture." 

"  I  will  say  no  more,"  said  Mrs.  Conway  resignedly. 
"  If  there  were  any  chance  of  my  being  listened  to, 
which  I  ought  to  know  by  this  time  there  is  not,  I 
should  ask  why  the  idea  of  our  removing  ourselves  to 
Manor  Farm  should  be  given  up.  I  should  perhaps 
have  urged  that  the  advantages  to  ourselves  of  having 
a  smaller  house  to  keep  up  are  the  same  as  they  were 
yesterday,  and  the  day  before,  and  the  day  before 
that.  I  might  have  pointed  out  that  Mr.  Blumenthal 
is  not  the  only  wealthy  man  in  England  at  the  present 
time,  and  that  by  advertising  in  papers,  as  is  done 
every  day,  someone  might  be  found  who  would  be 
pleased  to  take  this  house  off  our  hands,  and  pay 
whatever  sum  might  be  agreed  upon  per  annum  for 
doing  so.  However,  I  should  only  be  talked  down,  and 
I  prefer  to  keep  silence." 

"  It  isn't  a  bad  idea,  you  know,"  said  Sydney  re- 


SUNDAY  NIGHT  AND  MONDAY  MORN    343 

flectively,  "  to  see  whether  there's  yet  a  chance  of  let- 
ting Watermeads  furnished.  The  game  has  been  let 
down  to  almost  nothing,  but  there's  plenty  of  cover, 
and  anybody  who  cared  about  having  a  place  like  this 
might  be  willing  to  do  all  that  was  necessary  in  return 
for  a  nominal  rent.  I'm  afraid  we  should  almost  have 
to  give  the  place  away,  but  at  any  rate  it  would  be 
kept  up,  in  a  way  we  can't  do  ourselves.  I  think  your 
suggestion's  worth  turning  over,  mother.  But  Blu- 
menthal — no!  I  won't  sell  Blumenthal  a  picture  or 
anything  else.  I've  done  with  Blumenthal,  I  hope  for 
ever." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

FREDA  PULLS  IT  OFF 

NOTHING  had  been  said  to  Mrs.  Con  way  about  what 
was  known  of  the  passages  between  Freda  and  Jack 
Kirby,  nor  had  they  been  mentioned  at  all  amongst 
those  who  knew  of  them,  since  Rose  had  spoken  to  her 
father.  But  there  was  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some- 
thing more  would  be  heard.  They  had  not  yet  got 
rid  of  Freda  and  her  *  ways.' 

Light  began  to  trickle  through  when  Lady  Sophia 
came  over  on  that  Monday  afternoon,  to  ask  about 
something  that  was  worrying  her.  She  had  got  hold 
of  one  of  the  threads  of  a  possible  story,  and  wanted 
to  see  if  she  could  collect  a  few  others. 

Sydney  and  the  girls  were  playing  tennis,  with  Ed- 
ward Probert;  and  Olivia  was  in  the  garden  with  them. 
Fred  had  gone  out  for  a  long  walk  over  the  hills. 
Mrs.  Con  way  and  Penelope  were  in  the  parlour  to- 
gether. 

Penelope  had  taken  the  news  about  Freda  with  un- 
expected feeling.  She  had  burst  out  crying,  and  said 
that  she  loved  Freda,  and  asked  why  she  had  not  writ- 
ten to  her,  if  they  were  never  going  to  see  her  again. 
She  had  not  even  sent  her  a  message. 

Mrs.  Conway  was  still  carrying  on  the  work  of  con- 
solation, when  Lady  Sophia  was  shown  in.  But  her 
sensible  speeches  had  so  far  failed  of  their  effect,  and 

344 


FREDA   PULLS   IT  OFF  345 

Penelope  was  still  fighting  against  the  sense  of  desola- 
tion that  had  come  over  her  when  she  had  first  felt 
herself  to  be  betrayed.  She  clung  to  her  mother's  side, 
and  refused  to  be  dislodged  upon  hints  that  the  visitor 
had  something  to  say  which  she  wished  to  say  in  pri- 
vate. "  If  it's  about  Freda,"  she  said,  lifting  a  tear- 
stained  resentful  face,  "  I  want  to  hear  it.  Every- 
body is  against  her  but  me,  and  she  was  very  kind  to 
me,  and  I  love  her." 

Mrs.  Conway,  adamant  in  imposing  her  will  upon  all 
around  her  except  Penelope,  had  not  the  fortitude  to 
send  the  child  away  against  her  expressed  wish,  and 
Lady  Sophia  had  no  particular  objection  to  saying 
what  she  had  to  say  before  her,  if  Mrs.  Conway  did 
not  object  to  her  hearing  it.  Besides,  the  end  of 
another  thread  showed  in  Penelope's  speech. 

"  Why  is  everybody  against  Freda  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Conway, 
adapting  the  tone  of  her  speech  to  Penelope's  infant 
ears,  "  that  Freda  has  behaved  very  badly." 

"  She  hasn't,"  said  Penelope  hotly.  "  She  says  that 
Fred  doesn't  love  her  enough,  and  she  doesn't  want  to 
marry  him.  And  she  knows  that  nobody  likes  her 
here,  she  says,  and  it  isn't  true.  7  like  her,  and  I  shall 
write  and  tell  her  so,  and  ask  her  to  come  back.  I 
know  her  address  at  Scarborough,  and  I  shall  write 
this  afternoon." 

A  fresh  burst  of  tears  punctuated  her  speech.  "  Oh, 
she's  in  Scarborough,  is  she?  "  exclaimed  Lady  Sophia, 
as  Mrs.  Conway  essayed  to  assuage  Penelope's  grief. 
"  That  lets  in  daylight.  And  she  has  written  to  Fred 
to  break  off  her  engagement!  I  see.  Yes,  it's  begin- 


346  WATERMEADS 

ning  to  fit  in  now,  and,  upon  my  word,  it's  been  a 
pretty  quick  business." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more,"  said  Pe- 
nelope, breaking  away  from  her  mother's  heavy 
blandishments.  "  I  shall  go  and  talk  to  Cooky.  She 
didn't  like  Parker,  but  she  did  like  Freda.  She  and  I 
were  the  only  ones  in  this  house  that  did,  except  Fred, 
and  Fred  hasn't  behaved  well  to  Freda.  She  says  so, 
and  /  believe  her,  if  nobody  else  does." 

She  flung  out  of  the  room.  "  Poor  child !  "  said 
Mrs.  Conway.  "  She  has  a  loyal  and  tender  nature, 
and  naturally  at  her  age  it  is  difficult  to  see  ill  in  any- 
body. I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise,  but  there  is  no 
doubt,  Sophia,  that  you  and  I  were  right  in  our  first 
estimation  of  that  girl's  character.  She  has  behaved 
shamefully — abominably.  I  am  only  thankful  that  she 
was  found  out  for  what  she  is  before  the  marriage  took 
place;  otherwise  I  tremble  to  think  what  would  have 
happened  in  the  future.  We  have  been  nursing  a 
viper  to  our  bosoms.  I  abominate  strong  language, 
but  in  this  case  it  is  excusable." 

Lady  Sophia  asked  a  few  questions  which  put  her 
in  possession  of  the  facts,  as  far  as  they  were  known 
to  Mrs.  Conway.  "  Yes,  I  see  it  all  now,"  she  said. 
"  Upon  my  word,  I  can  hardly  help  admiring  the  girl's 
cleverness.  If  she  brings  it  off  with  young  Kirby, 
she'll  have  done  a  stroke  for  herself  in  a  few  days  that 
one  would  hardly  have  believed  it  possible  she  could 
have  managed  in  weeks.  Oh,  but  she's  clever!  But 
what  a  minx !  Oh,  what  a  minx !  " 

"  What  upon  earth  has  young  Kirby  to  do  with  it?  " 
enquired  Mrs.  Conway,  much  mystified. 


FREDA   PULLS   IT  OFF  347 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  tell  you.  That  afternoon  we  went 
over  to  Lutterbourne  something  struck  me  about  those 
two.  I  really  could  hardly  tell  you  what  it  was 
exactly;  it  was  so  slight  that  nobody  else  noticed  it. 
But  I  was  pretty  certain  that  there  was  an  under- 
standing between  them.  Well,  George  and  I  dined  at 
Prittlewell  last  night,  and  I  disengaged  a  few  facts. 
The  first  was  that  they  had  only  met  the  night  be- 
fore I  noticed  them  eyeing  one  another,  and  I  thought 
I  might  perhaps  have  been  mistaken,  as  it  would  hardly 
have  given  them  time  for  anything.  But  I  didn't  al- 
low enough  for  that  little  minx's  cleverness.  She  had 
set  herself  to  catch  him,  and  done  it  on  the  barest  op- 
portunity. Upon  my  word,  it's  a  masterpiece,  as  we 
used  to  say  in  Norfolk." 

"  I  wish  you  would  speak  plainly,  Sophia,"  said  Mrs. 
Conway,  with  a  slight  approach  to  the  air  of  weariness 
with  which  she  was  wont  to  protest  against  the  stupidi- 
ties of  her  own  family.  "  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of 
what  you  are  saying." 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  you  can,"  returned  Lady 
Sophia.  "  You  wouldn't  think  it  possible  that  she 
could  have  brought  it  off  in  so  short  a  time,  or  thrown 
dust  in  all  your  eyes  while  she  was  doing  it.  Well,  I'll 
go  on.  Lord  Kirby  took  me  in,  and  he  wasn't  nearly  so 
jovial  and  country-squirish  and  inclined  to  slap  one  on 
the  back  as  usual.  I'd  already  found  out  that  he  was 
as  pleased  at  the  idea  of  young  Jack  marrying  Rose 
as  you  could  be,  and  it  crossed  my  mind  that  some- 
thing might  have  gone  wrong  there,  and  that  was  the 
reason  why  he  was  depressed.  I'll  own  I  hadn't  put 
two  and  two  together  then,  which  was  perhaps  stupid 


348  WATERMEADS 

of  me ;  but  I  had  very  little  to  go  on,  and  wasn't  think- 
ing of  Freda  for  the  moment.  Well,  I  brought  in 
Rose's  name,  and  I  saw  I  was  right  about  his  being 
down  in  the  mouth  about  that,  from  the  way  he  took 
it.  I  didn't  press  him  in  any  way,  but  asked  him  pres- 
ently where  his  son  was.  Oh,  he  had  had  an  invitation 
to  shoot  grouse  in  Yorkshire.  He  didn't  know  when 
he'd  be  back,  and  he  said  it  in  a  way  to  make  me  think 
he  didn't  much  care.  He  didn't  want  to  talk  about 
Jack,  I  could  see,  and  I  didn't  go  on ;  but  after  din- 
ner I  got  a  little  more  out  of  Lady  Kirby.  It  is  a 
fact,  is  it,  Jane,  that  Freda  is  now  in  Scarborough?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  she  went  to  join  her  parents  there. 
But " 

"  Well,  then,  young  Kirby  has  gone  to  join  her 
there.  Lady  Kirby  told  me — she  hasn't  tumbled  to 
anything  whatever  yet — that  Jack's  shooting  engage- 
ment wasn't  for  another  three  or  four  days  after  he 
left  Prittlewell,  and  he  was  spending  the  interval  at 
Scarborough.  She  laughed  about  it,  and  said  her  hus- 
band was  annoyed,  as  he  wanted  him  at  Prittlewell. 
She  didn't  know  what  on  earth  he  was  doing  with  him- 
self at  Scarborough,  but  supposed  he  was  up  to  some 
mischief.  Well,  we  do  know  what  he's  doing  at  Scar- 
borough, and  I  wish  I'd  known  at  the  time  that  that 
was  where  your  little  minx  had  gone." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Conway, 
"  that " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Jane,  it's  all  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff 
now.  It  was  pretty  obvious  from  the  beginning  that 
she  didn't  really  care  about  Fred,  but  was  only  using 
him  as  a  climb-up  out  of  her  suburb.  Why  on  earth 


FREDA   PULLS   IT  OFF  349 

people  like  that  always  go  and  settle  themselves  in 
suburbs,  if  they're  so  anxious,  as  they  always  are,  to 
get  out  of  them  again,  I  don't  know.  But  there  it 
is.  She  got  herself  down  here,  at  any  rate,  and  di- 
rectly she  saw  somebody  who  would  suit  her  better 
than  Fred,  she  made  a  set  at  him.  Well,  all  I  can 
say  is  that  if  she  does  manage  to  hook  him  she'll 
deserve  all  she  gets  by  it.  I've  never  seen  a  smarter 
piece  of  work.  Why,  it  was  all  done  in  less  than 
twenty-four  hours,  and  the  second  time  she  can't  have 
been  alone  with  him  for  more  than  a  couple  of  minutes, 
yet  there  he  is  following  her  up!  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  she  has  hooked  him  by  this  time.  You  see  she  waited 
for  a  few  days  before  getting  rid  of  Fred.  Most  prob- 
ably she  didn't  write  to  him  until  she  had  made  sure 
of  the  other.  She's  too  sharp  to  throw  over  one  cer- 
tainty without  getting  another.  The  next  thing  that 
we  shall  see  will  be  a  paragraph  in  the  paper.  But 
Lord  Kirby  won't  like  it;  I'm  pretty  sure  he  won't. 
Well,  Jane,  I'm  afraid  it's  an  end  of  our  plans  for 
Rose." 

Mrs.  Conway's  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  She  had  known 
her  friend  to  build  up  enormous  structures  before  upon 
a  single  brick  as  foundation,  and  the  whole  edifice  to 
collapse  when  the  brick  had  been  discovered  to  have 
been  out  of  place,  or  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the 
weight.  But  she  had  never  known  her  actually  invent 
a  fact  upon  which  to  build.  In  this  instance  she  would 
not  have  said  that  Jack  Kirby  had  gone  to  Scar- 
borough unless  she  were  sure  of  it;  and  his  object  in 
going  there  was  plain  enough,  even  if  the  suspicions 
Lady  Sophia  had  claimed  to  have  had  of  him  and 


350  WATERMEADS 

Freda  beforehand  might  have  been  the  fruit  of  her  own 
fertile  imagination.  It  was  certainly  very  *  odd,'  but 
she  could  not  bring  'herself  to  believe,  without  further 
proof,  that  it  had  all  meant  what  Lady  Sophia  had 
unhesitatingly  taken  it  to  mean. 

"  I  think  you  must  be  exaggerating,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  no  doubt  about  young  Kirby  having  paid 
very  marked  attentions  to  Rose.  I  have  not  been  at 
all  anxious  that  anything  should  come  of  it,  as  I  have 
a  strong  objection  to  early  marriages,  and  Rose  is  not 
yet  twenty.  But  I  have  not  interfered  in  any  way  be- 
cause, unfortunately,  any  interference  on  my  part 
would  most  probably  be  only  the  signal  for  revolt.  A 
mother's  word  and  a  mother's  love  in  this  family  count 
for  nothing.  However,  that  is  not  the  point.  Of 
Freda  I  can  believe  anything.  She  would  certainly  do 
all  she  could  to  attract  a  young  man  in  that  position, 
and  it  is  quite  likely  that  she  may  have  thrown  over 
Fred,  so  wickedly,  because  she  has  hopes  of  being  able, 
as  you  say,  to  *  catch '  young  Kirby.  But  I  cannot 
believe  that  he  would  be  so  foolish  as  to  be  caught  in 
that  way.  He  has  eyes  in  his  head.  He  can  see  what 
she  is." 

"  Oh,  well,  so  has  Fred  got  eyes  in  his  head,  and  he 
didn't  see  what  she  was.  How  is  poor  Fred,  by  the 
by?  He's  very  well  out  of  it,  but  he  can't  be  feeling 
particularly  spry  for  the  moment,  I  should  think." 

Mrs.  Conway  said  that  Fred  had  not  considered  it 
necessary  to  inform  her  how  he  was  feeling.  A 
mother's  love  was  ready  for  him,  if  he  felt  any  desire 
for  it,  to  console  him  for  the  worthless  love  that  he 
had  lost,  but  apparently  it  was  valueless  to  him. 


FREDA   PULLS   IT   OFF  351 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Sophia,  "  it's  rather  unfortunate 
that  two  of  the  marriages  we  have  hoped  so  much 
from  should  have  collapsed  at  the  same  time.  Still, 
Elsie's  engagement  is  satisfactory  enough,  and  we 
must  be  content  with  that  for  the  present.  Somebody 
else  will  turn  up  for  Fred ;  Rose,  too,  I  hope.  There's 
plenty  of  time.  What  I  am  interested  in  now  is  to 
see  whether  that  little  minx  will  pull  it  off.  I  will  let 
you  know,  Jane,  the  moment  I  hear  anything,  and  if 
you  hear  something  first  you  must  let  me  know.  If  she 
does  come  to  Prittlewell,  I  shall  make  the  best  of  her; 
but  the  first  thing  I  shall  tell  her  will  be  that  she  has 
behaved  very  badly  to  Fred,  and  that  I  saw  through 
her  from  the  very  first." 

Whatever  comfort  there  may  have  been  in  this  for 
Lady  Sophia,  there  was  very  little  for  Mrs.  Conway, 
who  might  think  that  she  persuaded  others  that  she 
also  had  seen  through  Freda  from  the  first,  but  was 
well  aware  in  her  own  mind  that  she  had  done  nothing 
of  the  sort.  The  whole  episode  of  Freda's  visit  rankled 
more  and  more  in  her  bosom.  She  saw  herself  taken  in 
by  the  girl's  careful  behaviour  when  she  had  been  feel- 
ing her  way,  and  then  gradually  thrown  over,  and 
treated  first  with  indifference,  and  then  with  ill-dis- 
guised contempt.  There  had  been  passages  of  arms 
with  her  latterly  that  Mrs.  Conway  had  revealed  to 
nobody.  Freda  had  made  it  clear  that  she  saw  through 
her  intention  of  keeping  the  reins  in  her  own  hands, 
and  had  taken  a  pleasure  in  slighting  her  claims,  and 
showing  her  that  after  her  own  marriage,  when  she 
should  take  up  her  abode  at  Watermeads,  Mrs.  Conway 
would  be  expected  to  keep  her  place  and  not  interfere. 


352  WATERMEADS 

This  had  all  been  very  hard  to  bear,  and  but  for  the 
tangible  advantages  that  would  come  from  the  mar- 
riage the  harassed  lady  would  have  declared  open  war- 
fare and  done  her  best  to  end  the  arrangement. 

And  now,  on  the  top  of  all  this,  the  advantages  had 
been  withdrawn,  and  there  was  nothing  to  show  for  the 
slights  that  she  had  suffered.  They  rankled  intolera- 
bly. This  chit  of  a  girl,  who  but  for  her  father's 
wealth  would  probably  have  been  ogling  men  as  wait- 
ress in  a  tea-shop — so  Mrs.  Conway  gained  some  slight 
relief  in  putting  it  to  herself — had  been  deferred  to 
by  those  whom  she  had  simply  used  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  still  greater  advantages  for  herself.  Mrs. 
Conway  burned  to  tell  her  that  such  a  family  as  them- 
selves would  be  degraded  by  having  anything  to  do 
with  her,  and  would  willingly  have  sacrificed  one  of  the 
remaining  treasures  of  Watermeads  to  have  done  so  be- 
fore Freda  had  herself  cast  them  off.  And  worse  than 
anything  was  the  thought  that,  possibly  in  the  near 
future,  this  same  intolerable  chit  of  a  girl  might  be 
in  a  secure  position,  ostensibly  higher  than  their  own, 
to  use  scorn  of  them  still  further.  It  would  have  been 
through  them  that  she  would  have  raised  herself  to 
the  position,  and  the  scorn  would  be  all  the  harder  to 
bear  because  whatever  steps  might  be  taken  to  repel 
it  would  not  hurt  her  in  the  least. 

As  for  Freda  having  taken  Rose's  property  away 
from  her — which  was  how  the  irate  lady  expressed  it 
to  herself — it  hardly  bore  thinking  of.  The  separate 
factors  of  the  whole  were  of  such  maddening  quality 
that  she  could  only  take  refuge  in  a  sense  of  their  in- 
credibility. It  was  like  a  nightmare  from  which  she 


FREDA   PULLS   IT  OFF  353 

must  awaken  to  find  that  at  least  the  fear  of  Freda 
marrying  Lord  Kirby's  son  and  heir  was  one  that 
could  be  laughed  at. 

That  prospective  relief,  however,  was  wrenched  from 
her  when  Lord  Kirby  paid  another  visit  to  her  hus- 
band, and,  with  an  extremely  downcast  air,  confessed 
that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  his  son,  and  that  he  was 
being  asked  to  accept  as  his  daughter  the  girl  whom 
he  had  welcomed  to  his  house  only  the  week  before  as 
Fred's  prospective  bride. 

His  purpose  in  coming  at  all  was  not  at  first  plain, 
but  when  Sydney  understood  that  it  was  a  somewhat 
surprising  claim  upon  his  sympathy,  he  responded  to 
it  warmly.  He  had  been  rather  ashamed  of  the  way 
in  which  he  had  received  Lord  Kirby  on  his  previous 
visit,  and  seemed  to  himself  to  have  behaved  rather 
like  a  snob  in  pointing  out  the  superiority  of  his  own 
birth  to  that  of  a  man  who  had  raised  himself  to  what 
would  generally  be  considered  a  still  higher  level. 
After  all,  Lord  Kirby,  even  if  he  had  rested  himself 
upon  his  wealth  and  title,  had  shown  himself  eager  to 
endow  a  penniless  girl  with  them,  and  as  that  girl  was 
Sydney's  daughter,  Sydney  need  not  have  sought  to 
wound  the  donor  of  the  gift-horse  by  such  a  very  hos- 
tile criticism  of  its  teeth. 

Lord  Kirby  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  his  head  by  say- 
ing, with  a  dejected  air:  "I'm  afraid  you  were  right 
about  Jack  after  all,  Conway.  It  isn't  right  for  a 
young  man  to  be  so  changeable  in  these  matters,  and 
I  didn't  think  he  had  it  in  him  to  behave  as  he  has. 
I  suppose  you  saw  something  in  him  that  I  never  have 
seen,  and,  as  it  turns  out,  you  were  quite  right  in  ob- 


354  WATERMEADS 

jecting  to  him  as  a  husband  for  your  little  Rose.  He 
isn't  good  enough  for  her,  and  I've  told  him  so  pretty 
straight." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  never  felt  that  his  at- 
tentions to  Rose  were  much  of  a  compliment  to  her; 
but  I've  been  very  sorry  since  that  I  expressed  myself 
about  them  as  I  did  to  you.  I  did  dislike  the  idea  of 
a  marriage,  and  I  suppose  I  allowed  myself  to  get 
too  much  worked  up  about  it.  I  can  see  now 
that  if  he  had  looked  upon  it  in  the  same  way  as 
you  did,  I  shouldn't  have  had  anything  to  feel  sore 
about." 

"  Ah,  that's  just  it,"  said  Lord  Kirby.  "  It's  find- 
ing him  just  ready  to  rush  about  after  a  pretty  face, 
and  being  ready  to  pay  for  what  he  wants  with  mar- 
riage that  gets  at  me.  I  don't  know  that  I  was  any 
better  than  other  young  fellows  when  I  was  his  age, 
but  I  didn't  marry  in  that  way,  anyhow.  I  wanted 
something  more  than  a  pretty  face,  and  I  got  it,  and 
have  been  a  happy  man  ever  since.  Jack  would  have 
got  it  with  your  little  Rose,  and  one  of  the  prettiest 
faces  with  it;  I'm  hanged  if  I  think  he  will  with  this 
girl  he's  taken  up  with  now,  and  I've  told  him  so, 
pretty  straight." 

"  Is  he  determined  to  marry  her?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  off  his  head  about  her.  She's  led  him  on. 
She's  a  cunning  one.  I  saw  it  beginning  at  my  own 
table,  but  never  thought  it  was  more  than  youthful 
high  spirits.  She  must  have  got  hold  of  him  that  very 
evening, — and  engaged  to  your  son,  too,  and  no  doubt 
throwing  dust  in  his  eyes  while  she  was  playing  for  a 
bigger  fish !  You'll  excuse  my  putting  it  like  that,  Con- 


FREDA   PULLS   IT  OFF  355 

way.  In  the  eyes  of  a  girl  like  that,  of  course  my 
boy  would  be  a  bigger  fish  than  yours." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sydney,  with  a  laugh ;  "  we're  not 
going  to  quarrel  about  that  sort  of  thing  any  more. 
Well,  it's  plain  enough  what  she  is  up  to.  I  wonder 
that  he  can't  see  that  himself.  Does  he  suppose  that 
she  suddenly  fell  in  love  with  him  at  your  ball,  and  for- 
got all  about  Fred  on  the  instant,  like  Romeo  with 
Rosaline  and  Juliet?" 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Pat  play  Juliet,"  said  Lord  Kirby. 
"  I  don't  know  what  he  thinks  about  it.  He  just  wants 
her,  and  he's  determined  to  have  her.  I  suppose  she 
knew  how  to  play  her  cards  so  as  to  get  him.  I  do  think 
she's  done  most  of  it,  Conway,  and  I  told  Jack  so 
pretty  straight  when  I  wrote  to  him.  He's  annoyed 
about  it,  but  I  don't  care.  I  thought  I'd  just  come 
over  and  ask  you  what  you  thought  about  it — whether 
there's  any  real  reason  why  she  should  have  chucked 
over  your  Fred,  nice  fellow  as  he  always  seems  to  be — 
whether  he  got  tired  of  her,  or  anything  of  that  sort, 
I  mean — just  so  as  to  see  if  there's  any  excuse.  When 
a  girl  is  going  to  marry  your  son,  you  want  to  think 
the  best  of  her  you  can,  naturally.  I  don't  like  it, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  cut  myself  off  from  Jack,  and 
I  shall  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Oh,  then  he  is  going  to  marry  her." 

"  Oh,  lor'  yes.  Didn't  I  say  so?  He's  proposed  and 
been  accepted.  It  will  be  in  the  papers  tomorrow  or 
the  next  day." 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  give  you  any  consolation," 
said  Sydney,  after  digesting  this  piece  of  information. 
"  Fred  was  devoted  to  her,  and  treated  her  with  the 


356  WATERMEADS 

utmost  patience  and  kindness,  though  he'd  had  good 
reason  to  see  which  way  the  wind  was  blowing  before 
ever  this  happened.  No,  there's  no  fault  she  can  find 
with  him,  nor  I  think  with  the  rest  of  us.  The  best 
I  can  say  is  that,  having  got  what  she  wants — and  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  could  ever  have  expected  to 
get — it  will  be  to  her  own  interest  to  behave  herself. 
Nobody  is  bad  all  through,  and  she's  no  exception  to 
the  rule.  We  all  liked  her  well  enough  as  long  as  it 
was  to  her  interest  to  make  us  like  her.  Oh,  you'll 
get  along  with  her." 

"  It's  cold  comfort,"  said  Lord  Kirby. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

FRED  GETS  ON 

IT  was  fortunate  for  Fred  at  this  time  that  the  ap- 
proach of  a  General  Election,  to  be  fought  mainly  on 
an  issue  extremely  interesting  to  the  Right  Honourable 
Mark  Drake,  should  have  aroused  that  ancient  Par- 
liamentary war-horse  to  activities  that  he  had  long 
since  laid  aside.  It  was  one  of  his  numerous  little  od- 
dities that  he  liked  to  stay  in  London  when  the  greater 
part  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances  were  out  of  it; 
and  when  Fred  wrote  to  him  from  Watermeads  in  the 
middle  of  August,  to  tell  him  the  news  of  his  broken 
engagement,  and  to  say  that  he  should  be  glad  if  he 
could  give  him  some  work  to  do,  he  summoned  him  up 
to  London  at  once,  and  kept  him  so  busy  that  he  had 
little  time  to  brood  over  his  vanished  hopes. 

His  uncle  found  Fred  an  unexpectedly  competent 
helper.  He  had  always  been  diligent  and  methodical  in 
whatever  he  had  taken  in  hand,  and  spared  himself  no 
pains  and  no  time  in  doing  whatever  he  was  set  to  do 
to  the  very  best  of  his  ability.  He  was  always  amiable, 
and  watchful  of  his  chief's  requirements.  The  old  man, 
who  hated  to  think  of  himself  as  old,  whose  brain  was 
as  active  as  ever,  but  whose  strength  was  decreasing, 
was  sometimes  irritable  and  captious,  but  he  was  not 
like  Cousin  Henry,  on  the  look-out  for  occasions  for 
blame,  and  grew  more  and  more  attached  to  Fred,  as 

357 


358  WATERMEADS 

he  grew  more  to  rely  upon  him,  and  to  find  him  always 
responsive  and  accommodating.  Clever,  too,  he  began 
to  discover,  in  a  way  he  had  certainly  not  expected  of 
him,  when  Fred  had  taken  his  fancy  and  he  had  offered 
him  a  secretaryship  that  he  had  looked  upon  as  little 
more  than  a  sinecure.  Fred's  modest  abilities,  which 
had  been  somewhat  at  a  discount  in  Cousin  Henry's 
office,  where  initiative  was  wanted  to  give  them  fruition, 
showed  up  very  well  when  he  was  required  to  get  up 
a  subject  under  his  chief's  tutelage.  He  got  up  his 
subjects  remarkably  well,  and  showed  an  increasing  in- 
terest in  them.  His  uncle  was  delighted  with  him,  but 
did  not  tell  him  so.  He  only  showed  that  he  liked  to 
have  him  with  him ;  and  his  fits  of  irritability  made  but 
a  slight  mark  upon  the  cordiality  of  his  general  be- 
haviour. 

When  he  had  been  working  with  his  uncle  for  three 
or  four  weeks,  Fred  was  surprised  to  wake  up  one 
morning  and  find  himself  feeling  happy.  He  was  look- 
ing forward  with  zest  to  his  day's  work,  and  the  pleas- 
ures that  would  come  with  it.  These  were,  in  detail, 
just  the  ordinary  habits  of  a  young  man  with  enough 
money  to  live  the  life  of  his  fellows  in  that  part  of 
London  where  men  with  money,  young,  middle-aged  and 
old,  most  do  congregate;  but  it  was  all  fresh  and  de- 
lightful to  Fred,  who  had  hitherto  lacked  this  feeling 
of  assurance  and  opportunity. 

He  had  found  for  himself  a  set  of  rooms  in  West- 
minster, from  which  there  was  an  open  view  of  the 
river  and  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  Uncle  Mark  had 
made  him  a  present  with  which  he  had  been  enabled  to 
furnish  them,  chiefly  with  things  that  had  been  sent 


FRED   GETS  ON  359 

up  from  Watermeads.  These  bright  rooms  were  still 
a  new  and  a  great  pleasure  to  him,  and  with  the  con- 
veniences and  the  excellent  service  attached  to  them 
were  more  agreeable  even  than  his  rooms  at  Cambridge, 
and  much  more  so  than  his  rooms  at  Hillstead. 

He  liked  the  valeting  he  got,  and  to  feel  that  he 
could  be  well-dressed  without  anxiety  as  to  his  tailor's 
bills.  He  liked  the  way  in  which  his  breakfast  was 
served,  which  was  the  only  meal  he  had  in  his  rooms, 
and  was  somehow  different  from  the  one  that  had  been 
put  upon  his  table  every  morning  at  Hillstead,  though 
its  constituent  elements  were  the  same.  Sometimes  he 
walked  across  St.  James's  Park  to  the  Bath  Club,  to 
which  he  had  lately  been  elected,  and  breakfasted  there, 
after  a  swim.  He  generally  lunched  at  his  other  club, 
and  was  beginning  to  make  friends  there;  for  clubland 
is  never  empty  even  in  August,  or  perhaps  Mark  Drake 
would  not  have  found  himself  so  comfortable  in  Lon- 
don during  that  month. 

In  the  evening  he  dined  either  at  his  club,  or  at  a 
restaurant,  if  he  did  not  dine  with  his  uncle.  He  often 
worked  in  his  rooms  afterwards,  and  sometimes  went  to 
a  play  or  a  music-hall,  in  company ;  but  not  very  often, 
because  play-going  now  meant  stalls,  or  at  least  dress- 
circle,  instead  of  pit,  as  heretofore;  and  four  hundred 
pounds  a  year  is  not  unlimited  wealth. 

On  this  sunny  September  morning  life  seemed  to  be 
very  good  to  Fred,  as  he  stood  at  his  window  in  his 
pyjamas — silk,  from  a  shop  in  Bond  Street — and 
looked  out  over  the  sparkling  river.  Then  he  suddenly 
realised  that  there  was  something  missing,  and  stopped 
whistling  to  wonder  what  it  was. 


360  WATERMEADS 

He  was  a  little  shocked  to  discover  the  reason.  He 
had  awoke  without  that  uneasy  sense  of  loss  which  had 
never  been  absent  from  his  first  waking  since  he  had  re- 
ceived Freda's  letter  of  dismissal.  Nay  more;  he  had 
been  fully  awake  for  at  least  five  minutes,  and  her 
image  had  only  just  crossed  his  mind,  and  that  with- 
out any  sense  of  drop  in  his  spirits,  but  only  a  little 
added  seriousness  at  the  thought  that  it  should  be  so. 

The  seriousness  merged  into  grateful  relief  of  mind 
as  he  examined  himself  on  the  bearings  of  this  portent. 
He  was  cured,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time, 
considering  the  weight  of  the  malady  he  had  laboured 
under.  Or  if  not  completely  cured — for  Freda's  image 
was  to  return  to  him  many  times  yet,  and,  even  as  he 
thought  about  her  now,  had  power  to  trouble  him — yet 
convalescent,  with  recovery  beyond  all  doubt. 

He  had  fought  hard  against  the  tyranny  of  his  pas- 
sion, but  had  never  been  able  to  rid  himself  of  the  ex- 
pectation that  what  he  was  fighting  for  would  bring 
some  result  other  than  emancipation  from  it.  Some 
day  he  would  meet  Freda  again.  She  would  see  that 
he  was  indifferent  to  her,  and  it  would  disturb  her. 
She  could  never  be  anything  to  him  again,  and  when  she 
should  have  married  another  man  she  would  not  want 
to  be.  But  she  would  at  least  see  what  she  had  lost; 
for,  naturally,  if  he  had  shown  himself  less  dependent 
upon  him,  during  their  engagement,  she  would  have 
been  more  dependent  upon  him,  and  the  probability  was 
that  he  would  not  have  lost  her.  He  would,  in  fact, 
retrospectively,  get  back  some  of  his  own. 

But  this  morning,  for  the  first  time,  such  expecta- 
tions were  seen  to  be  not  worth  hugging  to  himself,  to 


FRED   GETS   ON  361 

have  been  indeed  but  the  dregs  of  desire  for  her  of 
which  he  had  not  yet  been  able  to  purge  himself.  He 
saw  Freda  at  last  free  from  the  veil  of  illusion  which 
had  always  clung  about  her,  and  if  some  shreds  of 
the  veil  would  blow  before  his  eyes  yet  for  some  time 
longer,  he  would  still  be  able  to  see  her  in  the  main  for 
what  she  was — a  snarer  of  men's  hearts,  but  with  noth- 
ing to  give  in  return,  or  at  least  nothing  that  would 
have  brought  him  any  happiness  when  once  the  novelty 
of  possession  of  her  had  worn  off.  He  was  free  from 
his  shackles,  and  could  enjoy  the  new  life  that  had  al- 
ready become  pleasant  to  him  to  the  full.  As  he 
walked  up  to  his  uncle's  house  later  in  the  morning, 
the  bright  September  sunshine  had  a  fresh  quality  of 
brilliance  for  him,  the  life  all  about  him  was  gayer  and 
brighter  in  his  eyes.  He  was  a  new  man,  and  a  happy 
one. 

It  was  on  that  same  morning,  by  a  chance  that  made 
him  afterwards  mark  the  day  with  a  white  stone  in  his 
memory,  that  his  uncle  showed  him  what  headway  he 
had  made  in  his  favour,  and  what  he  was  prepared  to 
do  for  him.  This  was  nothing  less  than  to  help  him  to 
a  seat  in  Parliament,  and  to  see  him  through  with  the 
career  that  he  had  offered  to  his  father  thirty  years 
before,  and  withdrawn  upon  his  marriage. 

The  suggestion  almost  took  Fred's  breath  away.  It 
was  made  in  characteristic  fashion,  at  the  end  of  their 
morning's  work  together.  Mark  Drake  stood  before 
the  fireplace,  in  which  a  few  logs  were  burning,  for  age 
had  chilled  his  blood,  though  it  had  not  bowed  his 
frame  nor  wrinkled  his  face.  He  was  a  fine  figure  of 
an  old  man,  with  his  fresh  colour  and  his  white  hair 


362  WATERMEADS 

and  pointed  beard.  He  was  always  very  carefully 
dressed,  and  the  only  relaxation  of  costume  he  allowed 
himself  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  house  was  a  plum 
coloured  smoking  jacket  in  place  of  the  black  braided 
morning  coat  which  he  wore  out  of  doors. 

"  We  shall  have  the  General  Election  on  us  in  three 
or  four  months  now,"  he  said,  "  and  we're  coming  in 
with  a  majority  that's  going  to  beat  all  records.  The 
new  Parliament  is  going  to  be  largely  one  of  young 
men,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  be  in  it,  Fred. 
I've  been  thinking  lately  that  I  should  like  to  see  you 
there,  chiefly  from  selfish  motives.  I've  got  a  good  deal 
to  say  still,  and  I  should  like  to  have  some  of  it  said 
in  the  House.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing  for  you, 
either,  to  have  me  behind  you  until  you  found  your  own 
feet.  How  do  you  feel  about  it  yourself?  " 

Fred  had  little  to  say,  except  that  he  had  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing  at  all,  and  that  he  doubted  his 
own  abilities. 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  his  uncle,  "  you're  not  a 
genius,  but  you're  not  a  fool.  I  thought  you  were  when 
I  first  saw  you,  and  it  won't  do  you  any  harm  with 
your  constituents  if  they  think  so,  too,  at  first,  for 
most  of  them  will  be  fools  themselves  and  they'll  take 
to  one  of  their  own  sort.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you're 
just  as  well  up  in  the  subjects  we've  been  working  at 
as  most  of  the  talkers  who  will  be  stumping  the  coun- 
try between  now  and  Christmas,  and  a  good  deal  bet- 
ter than  many  who  will  get  elected  without  any  diffi- 
culty. You've  never  spoken  in  public,  but  it's  no  more 
difficult  to  get  the  hang  of  that  than  to  know  what  to 
write,  and  you've  learnt  to  do  that  better  than  I  should 


FRED   GETS   ON  363 

ever  have  expected  of  you.  You've  got  a  tongue  in 
your  head;  in  fact,  you  rattle  it  a  bit  too  much  for 
my  taste  sometimes.  You're  always  pleased  with 
yourself  if  you  make  a  joke,  even  if  it's  a  damned  bad 
one,  and  that  goes  a  good  way  with  an  audience. 
You'll  find  you  can't  make  one  bad  enough  to  prevent 
some  ass  from  guffawing,  and  carrying  the  rest  with 
him.  Oh,  you'll  do  all  right  on  the  platform.  It  will 
be  different  in  the  House;  but  we  can  talk  about  that 
when  you  get  there." 

"  What  about  a  constituency  ?  "  asked  Fred.  "  I 
think  it  would  be  rather  a  lark,  but  time  is  getting  on." 

"  Well,  I  don't  carry  safe  seats  in  my  pocket,  as 
some  people  seem  to  think  I  do.  There  aren't  any  safe 
seats  now,  either,  for  us,  though  the  other  side  will  find 
themselves  in  the  same  boat  in  that  respect,  this  time, 
unless  I'm  much  mistaken.  But  I  think  I  can  manage 
to  get  you  adopted  as  a  candidate  somewhere.  We'll 
try  for  a  County  constituency,  if  we  can  find  one.  A 
country  gentleman,  or  his  son,  is  still  worth  something 
to  us,  especially  if  he  isn't  too  advanced.  I'm  less  ad- 
vanced than  I  was  by  reason  of  age,  and  you're  less 
advanced  than  you  might  be  by  reason  of  knowing  very 
little  about  it  all.  You  can  keep  to  Free  Trade  as 
your  main  plank;  a  few  gags  will  do  for  the  rest,  for 
this  election  anyhow,  and  you  must  throw  some  sops 
to  the  Dissenters,  but  for  God's  sake  don't  say  that  I 
take  that  view  of  their  epoch-making  requirements  out- 
side. Oh,  you'll  do  all  right,  as  an  amiable  young  ass 
of  the  land-owning  classes,  with  his  heart  in  the  right 
place  and  his  ideas  sound  as  far  as  they  go.  I'll 
pay  all  your  expenses,  and  make  you  whatever  allow- 


WATERMEADS 

ance  is  necessary.  Now  we'll  go  and  lunch  at  the 
Reform." 

Thus  Fred  was  launched  on  a  course  that  would 
have  seemed  impossible  to  him  a  few  weeks,  or  even  a 
few  days  before.  He  was  inspected  by  the  enlightened 
electorate  of  West  Russetshire,  or  by  such  of  them  as 
essayed  to  direct  the  opinions  of  the  rest  in  the  di- 
rection in  which  Fred  was  prepared  to  go,  and  made 
an  agreeable  impression  on  them.  The  former  candi- 
date on  his  side  had  also  been  a  young  man  anxious 
to  win  his  Parliamentary  spurs,  but  had  unexpectedly 
succeeded  to  an  uncle's  peerage.  His  type  had  been 
found  to  go  down  well,  and  Fred  was  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  it  that  could  be  procured  at  such  short  no- 
tice. Besides,  he  was  going  to  cost  nothing,  either  to 
party  or  local  funds,  and  was  hoped  to  be  in  the  way 
of  getting  a  few  big  guns  down  to  speak  for  him.  His 
opponent  was  a  carpet-bagger  from  London,  with  a 
foreign  name  that  was  thought  to  be  worth  a  good 
many  votes  to  Fred's  side,  and  his  way  entirely  to 
make,  both  in  public  and  private  life.  So  was  Fred, 
in  truth,  a  carpet-bagger,  but  stress  was  laid  upon  his 
stake  in  the  country,  as  represented  by  Watermeads 
and  its  acres;  and  as  Meadshire  and  Russetshire  were 
a  good  many  counties  apart,  the  meagreness  of  his 
stake,  in  its  present  condition,  was  not  embarrassingly 
apparent. 

As  our  story  is  concerned  with  Watermeads,  it  will 
not  be  necessary  to  follow  Fred's  fortunes  in  the  con- 
test into  which  he  threw  himself  with  such  vigour  dur- 
ing those  autumn  months.  Its  effect  upon  himself  was 
that  by  the  time  it  was  over  Freda  had  become  noth- 


FRED   GETS   ON  365 

ing  but  a  memory  to  him,  which  was  hardly  even  pain- 
ful. He  was  heart-free,  and  enjoying  his  life  im- 
mensely. 

One  cold  November  afternoon,  Fred,  who  had  just 
arrived  in  London  from  one  of  his  numerous  visits  to 
his  constituency,  went  to  the  Bath  Club  for  a  Turkish 
bath.  Simply  attired  in  a  blue  checked  duster,  with 
another  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  he  entered  the 
largest  of  the  heated  chambers  and  found  it  tenanted 
by  a  figure  in  a  similar  lack  of  costume.  The  figure, 
already  in  a  profuse  state  of  perspiration,  was  that 
of  Jack  Kirby. 

Now  Fred  had  already  considered  what  he  should 
do  when  he  should  meet  Jack  Kirby,  which  he  must 
sooner  or  later,  either  in  London  or  in  Meadshire. 
Two  months  before,  he  would  have  turned  his  back 
upon  him,  for  he  had  done  him  an  injury  which  he  was 
powerless  to  resent  in  any  other  way.  But  lately  he 
had  come  to  see  that  Jack  Kirby  had  done  him  no 
injury  whatever,  but,  on  the  contrary,  relieved  him  of 
something  that  would  have  made  all  his  life  miserable. 
This  view  of  the  situation  had  also  been  impressed  upon 
him  by  Uncle  Mark,  who  had  perhaps  most  endeared 
himself  to  Fred  by  the  feeling  he  showed  at  the  way  in 
which  he  had  been  treated ;  for  sympathy  had  been  very 
apparent  under  the  attitude  of  cynicism  which  he  had 
adopted  towards  the  affair,  and  it  had  been  grateful 
to  feel  that  in  some  measure  he  was  inclined  to  make 
Fred's  trouble  his.  Uncle  Mark  had  dispensed  himself 
from  the  engagement  he  had  long  since  made  to  shoot 
partridges  at  Prittlewell  in  September.  He  didn't 
mind  old  Kirby,  he  said,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  meet 


366  WATERMEADS 

that  young  cub,  or  run  the  risk  of  meeting  the  girl 
who  had  behaved  so  badly.  "  You're  well  out  of  it, 
all  the  same,"  he  had  said,  "  and  the  next  time  you 
meet  that  conquering  hero  I  should  tell  him  so,  if  I 
were  you,  and  wish  him  joy  of  his  bargain."  So  Fred 
had  decided  that  he  would  not  cut  Jack  Kirby,  when 
he  should  meet  him;  and  now  that  he  had  at  last  met 
him,  he  was  prepared,  if  not  to  follow  his  uncle's  ad- 
vice, at  least  to  show  no  signs  of  embarrassment. 

Jack,  however,  showed  them  strongly,  as  Fred  said: 
"  Hullo !  Having  a  stew  ?  "  and  arranged  the  blue 
checked  duster  from  his  shoulders  on  to  the  back  of 
a  canvas  chair,  so  as  to  temper  the  first  shock  of  heat 
to  his  frame.  Jack  Kirby  seemed  to  feel  the  need  of 
more  clothing,  and  less  personal  moisture,  to  support 
the  encounter  with  dignity,  by  the  movements  he  made 
as  he  replied :  "  Oh,  how  are  you,  Conway  ?  I  didn't 
know  you  were  a  member  here." 

Fred  carefully  arranged  himself  in  his  chair.  The 
dryness  of  his  skin  seemed  to  give  him  an  advantage 
over  Jack  Kirby,  which  he  made  haste  to  use  before  it 
should  disappear.  "  When  are  you  going  to  get  mar- 
ried? "  he  asked  affably.  "  I  saw  the  notice  of  your 
engagement  in  the  paper,  but  I  haven't  seen  any  notice 
of  the  wedding  yet." 

Jack  Kirby  mopped  his  super-heated  brow.  "  Look 
here,  Fred,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "  We've  always  been 
pretty  good  pals,  and  I've  felt  rather  bad  about  taking 
the  wind  out  of  your  sails  in  the  way  I  did.  Still, 
a  fellow  can't  altogether  help  himself  in  these  affairs, 
can  he?  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  unless  I'd  fallen  des- 
perately in  love  with  Freda." 


FRED   GETS   ON  367 

"  I'll  forgive  you,"  said  Fred.  "  I  fell  in  love  with 
her  myself,  and  I  know  what  it's  like.  How  is  she,  by 
the  by?" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  you're  not  in  love  with  her  any 
more,"  said  Jack,  rather  sulkily.  "  Well,  she  didn't 
treat  you  very  well,  I'm  bound  to  say.  She  didn't  care 
about  you — I've  found  that  out — and  she  ought  not  to 
have  let  you  think  she  did,  or  got  engaged  to  you." 

Fred  felt  a  slight  sensation  of  discomfort,  either  at 
this  direct  statement,  or  at  the  first  pricking  of  his 
pores.  "  Why  did  she  get  engaged  to  me,  then,  if  she 
didn't  care  for  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  She  didn't  tell  me 
that  in  her  letter,  and  I  should  rather  like  to  know." 

"  Oh,  well,  she  thought  you  were  rather  a  bigger  bug 
than  you  turned  out  to  be."  Jack  Kirby  was  begin- 
ning to  pick  himself  up  a  little.  "  I  don't  blame  a  girl 
for  thinking  of  that  sort  of  thing  when  she  wants  to 
get  married.  Most  of  them  do.  She  thought  she'd 
get  on  with  you  all  right,  but  when  she  came  to  try 
it  she  found  she  couldn't.  I  don't  blame  her  for  say- 
ing so,  either,  and  cutting  it  all  out  while  there  was 
time — though  of  course  it  was  a  nasty  jar  to  you." 

"  Well,  it  was  rather,  at  the  time.  But  I  don't 
blame  her  much,  either,  now,  for  swopping  me  for  a 
bigger  bug  than  I  had  turned  out  to  be.  I  suppose 
you've  satisfied  yourself  that  she  won't  swop  you  for 
a  bigger  one  still,  if  he  happens  to  turn  up." 

Jack  Kirby  did  not  rise  to  this  provocation.  "  It's 
a  rummy  thing,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  some  dejec- 
tion, "  that  I  never  used  to  think  I  should  mind  if  a 
girl  I  wanted  took  me  because  of  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  I  find  I  do,  Fred,  old  chap.  I  don't  mind  telling 


368  WATERMEADS 

you,  because  I  can  see  quite  plainly  that,  though  you 
may  be  a  bit  annoyed  at  what  happened — and  quite 
rightly,  too;  I  should  myself — it  hasn't  really  hit  you. 
You're  not  in  love  with  her  any  more,  are  you  now?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I'm  not,"  said  Fred.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
said  it  myself,  at  least  not  to  you,  but  as  you've  tum- 
bled to  it  that  she  wanted  something  out  of  me  and 
got  engaged  to  me  for  it,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
I  found  that  out  some  time  ago,  and  all  my  people 
found  it  out  long  before  I  did.  So  perhaps  it's  not  al- 
together unnatural  that  when  she  wanted  something 
out  of  you  still  more,  and  chucked  me  over  for  it,  I 
shouldn't  worry  myself  much  more  about  her;  and  in 
fact,  I  don't." 

"  I  say,  that's  a  bit  thick,  you  know — to  say  she  took 
to  me  for  what  she  could  get  out  of  me." 

"  Is  it?  I'm  sorry;  but  I  thought  you  said  it  your- 
self." 

"  Well,  I  did  say  that  it  counted.  I  didn't  say  it 
was  all  that  counted,  and  I  don't  think  it  is.  I 
shouldn't  care  for  her  any  more  than  you  do,  now,  if 
I  thought  so.  Do  you  think  that's  all  there  was  to 
it,  when  she  let  me  make  love  to  her?  " 

A  memory  of  the  very  early  stage  at  which  she  had 
let  him  make  love  to  her  came  up  to  anger  Fred.  He 
was  not  yet  able  to  regard  the  whole  episode  of  his 
own  brief  love-making  with  the  indifference  he  had 
hitherto  shown  for  the  benefit  of  Jack  Kirby.  "  I 
don't  know  why  I  should  be  expected  to  discuss  it — 
with  you,"  he  said,  as  stiffly  as  his  now  melting  condi- 
tion permitted.  "  Whatever  I  think  about  it,  it  was  a 
pretty  dirty  trick  to  make  love  to  her  in  the  way  you 


FRED   GETS   ON  369 

did,  and  it  doesn't  make  it  any  better  that  if  she'd  been 
somebody  else  she  wouldn't  have  let  you  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  myself,"  Jack  Kirby 
admitted,  in  such  a  tone  that  Fred's  irritation  van- 
ished, and  he  actually  felt  sorry  for  him.  "  And  it's 
a  pretty  beastly  thing  to  feel,"  he  added.  "  She's  got 
hold  of  me,  the  young  monkey,  and  I'm  desperately 
gone  on  her.  But  I  wish  to  goodness  I  wasn't.  She  plays 
all  sorts  of  tricks  on  me,  because  she  knows  I  can't  do 
without  her,  and  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth  she  gives 
me  a  devil  of  a  time.  She'd  better  be  careful  though. 
She  isn't  the  only  spilikin  in  the  box,  and  if  I  found 
somebody  that  took  my  fancy,  she  might  find  herself 
left.  However,  I  don't  seem  to  come  across  anybody 
I'm  likely  to  get  so  keen  on  as  I  am  on  her,  and  I 
suppose  I  shall  go  through  with  it.  I'm  damned  if  I'm 
going  to  stand  any  nonsense,  though,  when  we're  mar- 
ried. Well,  I'm  going  to  get  shampooed.  We  might 
have  a  talk  in  the  cooling  room,  when  you've  sweated 
it  off." 

Fred  was  not  anxious  for  a  further  talk,  and  as  the 
couch  on  which  he  presently  recuperated  himself  was 
not  within  confidential  talking  distance  of  Jack 
Kirby's,  and  he  wanted  to  go  to  sleep  besides,  the  en- 
counter brought  nothing  further  in  the  way  of  in- 
formation. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS 

UNCLE  MARK  paid  his  promised  visit  to  Watermeads 
late  in  November.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  would 
have  paid  it  at  all  if  he  had  not  received  an  invitation 
to  Elsie's  wedding  for  a  few  weeks  later.  He  explained 
to  Fred  that  a  function  of  that  sort  was  quite  be- 
yond him,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  appear  disagreeable, 
and  if  they  really  wanted  him  he  would  go  down  for 
a  quiet  week-end  beforehand.  He  didn't  want  any  fuss 
made  on  his  account.  His  servant  would  look  after 
him,  and  he  would  take  the  liberty  of  sending  down 
some  wine,  and  a  few  other  delicacies  to  which  he  had 
grown  accustomed.  Perhaps  they  could  manage  a  sit- 
ting-room for  him  next  to  his  bedroom,  which  should 
have  a  south  aspect,  if  possible.  He  was  getting  too 
old  to  wish  to  be  always  in  company,  though  he  hoped 
to  see  a  good  deal  of  the  family.  He  was  sure  they 
wouldn't  mind  not  asking  people  to  meet  him,  but  he 
would  like  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  Vicar,  who 
might  be  asked  to  dinner  on  Sunday  evening,  if  con- 
venient, or  on  Saturday,  if  more  convenient  still.  But 
he  had  always  found  the  clergy  riper  on  Sunday 
evening,  when  their  day's  work  was  done. 

Colonel  Raine  lent  a  carriage  to  fetch  the  great  man 
from  the  station.  Little  accommodations  of  this  sort 
would  frequently  have  been  made  for  the  Conways,  by 

370 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    371 

more  than  one  of  their  neighbours,  had  not  Sydney  dis- 
liked accepting  them.  This  occasion,  however,  was  an 
exception. 

The  carriage  picked  Sydney  up  at  Watermeads,  and 
he  drove  to  the  station  to  meet  the  six  o'clock  train. 
It  was  a  bitter  winter  night.  The  wind  blew  in  great 
gusts,  and  a  sleety  rain  drove  against  the  windows  of 
the  carriage.  But  it  was  snug  enough  inside,  with 
a  footwarmer  and  a  great  fur  rug. 

Sydney's  thoughts  were  sombre,  as  he  was  carried 
smoothly  along  in  a  way  that  had  been  familiar  enough 
to  him  in  the  days  of  his  spacious  youth,  but  now 
seemed  almost  as  strange  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  his 
own  cottagers,  enjoying  a  ride  in  a  rich  man's  carriage 
on  the  way  to  the  polling  booth.  The  situation  guided 
his  thoughts  to  the  poverty  that  had  beset  him  for  so 
many  years,  and  he  asked  himself  how  far  it  had  af- 
fected his  happiness,  and  exactly  how  much  he  really 
wanted  to  be  rich  again,  or  at  least  able  to  live  in  the 
way  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up. 

His  conclusion  was  that  a  great  deal  of  what  he  had 
at  one  time  missed  he  missed  no  longer.  A  simple  way 
of  living  suited  him  better  on  the  whole  than  a  life  sur- 
rounded by  observances,  which,  however  well  one  was 
served,  added  to  responsibilities,  and  evoked  duties 
which  were  irksome,  and  pleasures,  many  of  which  were 
irksome,  too.  He  had  enjoyed  his  life  during  the  last 
thirty  years;  there  was  little  of  it  he  had  not  enjoyed. 
The  great  blot  had  been  the  anxiety  as  to  the  future, 
which  had  hardly  ever  been  absent  from  his  mind,  and 
was  now  almost  more  of  a  burden  on  him  than  it  had 
ever  been. 


372  WATERMEADS 

It  had  been  a  great  disappointment  that  the  way  of 
release  recently  held  out  had  come  to  nothing.  Until 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  compass  life  in  a  smaller 
house  had  raised  his  spirits,  he  had  hardly  realised 
what  a  burden  Watermeads  had  become;  and  to  take 
it  up  again,  with  no  immediate  expectation  of  relief, 
seemed  intolerable. 

He  was  greatly  worried,  too,  over  the  details  of 
Elsie's  wedding.  It  was  to  be  '  quiet ' ;  that  went  with- 
out saying.  A  big  wedding  was  so  much  out  of  the 
question  at  Watermeads  that  it  had  not  even  been  dis- 
cussed. But  for  a  daughter  of  the  house  to  be  mar- 
ried without  any  ceremony  whatever  was  equally  out 
of  the  question.  Clothes  must  be  provided,  friends  and 
neighbours  must  be  asked,  and  entertained;  there  were 
a  hundred  and  one  little  expenses  to  be  faced,  which 
mounted  in  the  aggregate  to  a  considerable  sum,  and 
Sydney  hardly  knew  where  it  was  to  come  from.  He 
half  wished  that  he  had  accepted  Mr.  Blumenthal's 
offer  for  the  Holbein.  And  yet  that  could  not  have 
been  done  without  obligation,  for  apparently  Mr. 
Blumenthal's  offer  had  been  far  above  the  market 
price:  another  expert  had  been  asked  to  inspect 
the  picture,  and  had  said  that  it  was  certainly 
not  the  work  of  Holbein,  and  its  owner  would  be 
lucky  if  he  got  a  hundred  pounds  for'  it  at  public 
auction. 

The  clouds,  indeed,  were  gathering  round  Water- 
meads  again,  in  spite  of  recent  good  fortune  in  Elsie's 
engagement,  and  in  Fred's  new  and  brilliant  start  in 
life.  It  seemed  to  be  quite  impossible  to  let  the  house 
in  its  present  condition;  and  to  go  on  living  in  it 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS   373 

meant  its  getting  worse  and  worse,  and  themselves 
poorer  and  poorer,  with  no  end  in  view  but  to  get  rid 
of  it  at  last,  when  .it  would  be  less  in  value  than  it 
was  now. 

It  was  perhaps  curious  that  Sydney  should  almost 
have  made  the  decision  to  sell  Watermeads  at  once,  and 
get  rid  of  all  his  burdens  by  doing  so,  when  the  last 
chance  of  saving  it,  which  had  been  lately  so  much  in 
his  mind,  should  have  been  actually  on  the  point  of 
presenting  itself.  Surely,  he  had  thought,  Uncle 
Mark,  having  behaved  so  generously  towards  Fred, 
and  now  ready  for  complete  reconciliation  with  him- 
self, would  stretch  out  a  helping  hand  when  he  came  to 
Watermeads  and  saw  for  himself  to  what  a  pass  things 
had  come!  Perhaps  it  was  only  the  reaction  from  his 
high  hopes  that  had  set  in,  now  that  they  were  on  the 
very  point  of  coming  together  again.  And  yet  his 
doubts  and  depression  were  not  altogether  without 
cause. 

For  nearly  thirty  years  his  uncle,  who  had  once 
treated  him  as  a  son,  had  given  him  the  cold  shoulder, 
and  the  temperature  of  that  shoulder  had  been  no 
higher  because  he  had  done  it  without  showing  offence 
against  him,  but  only  a  cynical  indifference.  It  was 
now  nearly  six  months  since  his  meeting  with  Fred, 
and  his  first  expressed  willingness  to  take  up  again  the 
threads  of  relationship.  But  he  had  not  moved  an  inch 
towards  doing  so,  except  with  regard  to  Fred  himself, 
and  nothing  had  seemed  to  be  further  from  his  thoughts 
than  to  offer  the  substantial  help  which  had  been  an 
accepted  thing  between  them  before  the  break.  The 
nearest  he  had  come  to  it  was  to  talk  to  Fred  about 


374  WATERMEADS 

the  future  in  such  a  way  as  seemed  to  show  that  he 
had  much  the  same  ideas  in  his  head  about  him  as  he 
had  once  had  about  his  father.  But  even  leaving  out 
of  account  the  possibility  of  his  throwing  over  Fred, 
if  he  should  give  him  some  cause  of  displeasure,  as  he 
had  thrown  over  Sydney,  there  was  nothing  definite  to 
count  on;  Watermeads  and  its  crying  wants  were  still 
outside  the  pale  of  his  generosity. 

Sydney  threw  off  his  depression  in  some  measure  as 
he  waited  at  the  station  for  the  train  to  come  in.  He 
was  in  some  excitement  at  the  nearness  of  the  long  de- 
ferred meeting.  He  had  been  very  fond  of  his  uncle, 
and  some  shreds  of  affection  clung  to  him  still.  They 
had  parted,  the  one  as  a  young  man,  the  other  as  a 
middle-aged  one,  but  still  in  the  prime  of  his  active 
life.  Sydney  was  now  about  the  same  age  as  his  uncle 
had  been  then,  but  still  felt  the  same  sort  of  de- 
pendence on  him,  such  as  he  had  grown  past  feeling 
for  any  other  man  in  the  world.  It  mattered  much  to 
him  whether  his  uncle  would  treat  him  as  he  had  been 
used  to  do,  or  as  the  stranger  he  had  made  of  him  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  Sydney's  life. 

Mark  Drake,  amply  swathed  in  furs,  but  tall  and 
upright  beyond  the  due  of  his  age,  seemed  hardly 
changed  to  Sydney  as  he  stepped  out  of  his  carriage, 
followed  by  Fred,  and  came  forward  to  greet  his 
nephew..  "  Well,  Sydney,  my  boy,"  he  said  as  he  shook 
hands,  "  here's  a  nice  night  for  an  old  fellow  to  be  out 
in!  I  hope  you've  got  something  that  will  take  us 
home  to  a  fire  pretty  quick.  Come  on !  We'll  leave 
Gates  to  bring  on  the  luggage  in  a  fly." 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    375 

Sydney  experienced  an  extraordinary  thrill  of  pleas- 
ure at  this  speech,  not  abundantly  cordial  in  itself.  It 
bridged  the  years.  Uncle  Mark  was  still  the  kindly 
rather  selfish  autocrat,  and  he  had  not  the  slightest 
objection  himself  to  play  the  old  part  of  obedience  and 
assistance,  in  recognition  of  that  careless  affectionate 
*  Sydney,  my  boy,'  which  had  not  fallen  on  his  ears  for 
so  long. 

No  reference  whatever  was  made  to  their  estrange- 
ment as  they  bowled  along  the  dark  country  roads  in 
the  smooth-running  carriage,  which  Uncle  Mark  said 
he  much  preferred  to  a  motor-car.  But  he  seemed  to 
show  himself  completely  oblivious  to  all  that  he  must 
surely  have  known  when  he  said :  "  You  manage  to 
keep  some  good  horses  still,  then.  You  were  always  a 
good  judge  of  a  horse,  Sydney." 

"  Oh,  this  isn't  my  carriage,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  bor- 
rowed it,  as  it's  such  a  beastly  night." 

Uncle  Mark  made  no  comment  upon  this,  but  began 
to  talk  about  Fred  and  his  chances  in  West  Russet- 
shire.  "  I  think  he'll  get  himself  in  all  right,"  he  said. 
"  Sydney,  my  boy,  why  don't  you  go  down  and  speak 
for  him?  You  used  to  be  a  pretty  good  hand  at  it. 
He's  coming  on  himself,  but  he  isn't  up  to  you  yet.  I 
doubt  if  he  ever  will  be.  You  used  to  be  a  clever  fel- 
low, Sydney.  I  hope  the  country  life  you  chose  for 
yourself  hasn't  sapped  your  brain." 

So  that  was  to  be  the  note  on  which  the  past  was  to 
be  treated,  if  it  was  mentioned  at  all;  and  apparently 
no  awkwardness  was  to  be  admitted  by  shirking  it. 
Sydney  felt  a  drop  in  his  sensations  of  pleasure  at 
the  meeting.  He  was  to  be  held  at  arm's  length,  after 


376  WATERMEADS 

all,  in  spite  of  the  surface  cordiality  that  was  to  be 
kept  up.  He  passed  over  the  reference  to  his  choice, 
which,  as  Uncle  Mark  knew  perfectly  well, — unless  he 
had  withdrawn  his  interest  from  him  during  the  years 
of  estrangement  so  far  as  to  have  forgotten  all  about 
it, — had  been  no  choice  of  his.  "  You  have  made  Fred 
a  Free  Trader,"  he  said ;  "  but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 
I'm  one  any  longer,  though  I  should  like  to  be  for  the 
sake  of  our  old  times  together.  If  we  could  get  a  mod- 
ified Protection,  it  would  be  a  great  thing  for  people 
like  myself." 

"  Ah,  you've  swallowed  the  bait,  I  see,"  said  Uncle 
Mark,  without  any  diminution  of  friendliness.  "  You 
talk  it  over  with  Fred,  Sydney.  He'll  put  you  right. 
Still,  if  you're  not  sound,  you'd  better  not  go  election- 
eering with  him." 

He  changed  the  subject  again.  Sydney  would  have 
liked  to  talk  immediate  politics  with  him.  He  had  done 
so  in  the  past,  and  it  had  never  been  expected  of  him 
that  he  should  keep  his  own  views  in  the  background. 
Uncle  Mark  had  rather  preferred  that  they  should  dif- 
fer in  some  respects  from  his  own,  for  the  sake  of  the 
discussion.  But  now,  apparently,  his  views  were  not 
worth  considering.  Uncle  Mark  wanted  to  keep 
friends,  but  not  to  be  bothered. 

The  meeting  between  Uncle  Mark  and  Mrs.  Conway 
had  considerably  exercised  the  minds  of  those  who  were 
about  to  witness  it.  It  had  been  agreed  upon  between 
Elsie  and  Rose  that  Uncle  Mark  would  behave  with 
perfect  propriety,  and  would  most  probably  ignore  the 
old  quarrel  entirely.  But  they  could  not  feel  quite 
sure  about  their  mother.  She  had  talked  a  great  deal 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    377 

about  Uncle  Mark's  visit,  and  had  expressed  herself 
over  and  over  again  as  being  ready  to  forgive  and  for- 
get. But  it  was  plain  that  she  had  not  forgotten  any- 
thing, and  it  was  doubtful  whether  her  forgiveness 
would  be  brought  to  bear  upon  the  situation  created 
by  his  visit  without  some  expression  of  it,  possibly 
awkward  in  its  effect.  She  had,  however,  rejected  all 
attempts  to  discover  exactly  how  she  intended  to  re- 
ceive him.  She  hoped  she  knew  what  to  say  and  do 
without  prompting  from  her  own  daughters.  If  they 
could  not  trust  her  to  behave  as  became  a  Christian 
and  a  gentlewoman,  let  them  say  so  at  once,  and  not 
take  refuge  in  unmannerly  hints.  If  there  was  one 
thing  she  abhorred  it  was  lack  of  candour.  As  they 
were  on  the  subject,  however,  she  should  like  to  say 
one  thing  to  them.  They  had  already  heard  discussed 
— very  unfortunately  as  she  thought,  but  she  was 
tired  of  asking  that  extremely  private  matters  should 
not  be  discussed  before  them;  if  she  had  asked  it  once 
she  had  asked  it  a  hundred  times,  but  no  notice  had 
been  taken,  and  she  sometimes  thought  that  she  had 
only  to  say  a  thing  to  have  the  opposite  of  it  done 
immediately.  However,  that  was  not  the  point — 
They  had  already  heard  discussed  the  possibility  of 
Uncle's  Mark's  doing  something  to  help  their  father 
in  the  unfortunate  state  to  which  he  had  been  reduced, 
largely  through  the  unaccountable  behaviour  of  Uncle 
Mark  himself.  It  might  very  well  be  wished  that  some- 
thing of  that  sort  should  come  about,  and  she  should 
do  what  she  could,  and  she  hoped  that  they  would  all 
do  what  they  could  to  make  his  very  short  visit  a 


378  WATERMEADS 

pleasant  one  to  him,  so  that  he  might  see  that  his 
fears  on  their  father's  account  had  been  entirely  with- 
out foundation,  that  although  his  own  countenance 
had  been,  unaccountably,  withdrawn  from  him,  he  had 
gained  the  great  compensation  of  a  happy  family  life, 
and  that  Uncle  Mark  might  possibly  regret  that  he 
had  cut  himself  off  from  it.  But  in  order  to  do  this 
it  was  not  necessary  that  they  should  show  how  little 
their  own  mother  counted  in  the  aforesaid  family  life. 
She  would  not  now  go  into  the  distress  of  mind  that  it 
frequently  caused  her  to  realise  that  this  was  so.  She 
only  wished  to  say  that  for  their  own  sakes  as  well  as 
for  their  father's  it  would  be  well  for  them  to  re- 
member at  least  as  long  as  Uncle  Mark  was  with  them, 
that  their  mother  was  still  their  mother,  even  if  they 
chose  to  forget  it  at  other  times.  It  would  be  ex- 
tremely disloyal  if  they  allowed  him  to  go  away  with 
the  idea  that  he  had  been  right  after  all  in  his  unac- 
countable behaviour  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  when 
he  had  gone  so  far  in  his  insensate  objections  to  her- 
self as  a  wife  for  their  father  as  actually  to  permit 
himself  to  say  that  he  might  just  as  well  have  mar- 
ried his  kitchenmaid,  and  he  doubted  whether  he  would 
so  much  have  bored  himself  for  life  if  he  had 
done  so. 

In  the  adjustments  that  the  two  girls  made  with 
themselves  over  this  speech — adjustments  that  were  so 
frequently  necessary  when  their  mother  wished  to  say 
just  one  thing  to  them,  and  said  it  at  such  length,  so 
that  filial  feeling  might  if  possible  be  preserved  in  face 
of  self-revelations  not  altogether  conducive  to  it — 
they  did  not  at  first  understand  that  the  great  prob- 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    379 

lem  as  to  '  what  Uncle  Mark  had  said '  had  at  last 
been  solved  for  them.  When  they  did  understand  it, 
they  both  laughed,  rather  guiltily,  and  then  agreed 
that  it  was  an  awful  thing  to  have  said,  and  no  wonder 
mother  had  been  upset  by  it.  There  they  left  it,  and 
agreed  further  that,  although  it  was  not  fair  to  say 
that  they  had  shut  her  off  from  the  family  life,  still  they 
must  be  careful  not  to  let  Uncle  Mark  see  that  they 
loved  their  father  much  better  than  they  did  their 
mother.  This  fact  had  long  been  acknowledged  by 
them,  and  there  was  no  disloyalty  in  mentioning  it  be- 
tween themselves.  They  had  never  admitted  it  to  any- 
body outside,  not  even  to  Olivia,  and  it  was  the  limit  to 
which  their  criticism  of  their  mother  went  in  their  own 
most  intimate  confidences.  Mrs.  Conway  was  a  good 
deal  more  fortunate  than  she  knew  in  the  admirable 
loyalty  of  her  daughters. 

They  were  all  at  the  door  when  the  carriage  drove 
up,  in  spite  of  the  icy  blast  that  was  driving  against 
the  house,  fortunately  obliquely  to  the  south  front; 
for  there  was  no  porch,  and  the  great  hall,  which  made 
such  an  agreeable  place  of  resort  in  the  summer,  was 
almost  unusable  in  the  winter,  except  when  it  was  shut- 
tered and  curtained  for  the  night.  The  majesty  of 
Mrs.  Conway's  greeting  was  somewhat  spoiled  by  the 
necessity  of  hurrying  Uncle  Mark  into  the  house  at  a 
run,  and  immediately  banging  the  door  behind  him. 
He  came,  as  it  were,  full  tilt  upon  her,  but  as  she  re- 
coiled she  said :  "  Welcome  to  Watermeads !  Though 
we  have  not  seen  you  for  so  many  years  there  is  still 
a  warm  place  for  you  here." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Uncle  Mark  took  it,  and 


380  WATERMEADS 

replied  with  a  laugh :  "  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  find  it 
then,  for  I'm  nearly  frozen." 

The  anticipated  awkwardness  of  the  meeting  was 
over.  Mrs.  Conway  stood  aside,  apparantly  ruminat- 
ing upon  whether  her  speech  had  made  quite  the  effect 
she  desired,  while  Uncle  Mark  shook  hands  with  Elsie 
and  Rose  and  Bobby  and  Billy  and  Penelope,  and  then, 
divesting  himself  of  his  heavy  coat  with  Fred's  help, 
wondered  how  long  Gates  would  be  following  with  the 
luggage. 

He  was  led  into  the  parlour,  which  was  warm  and 
cozy  enough  with  its  bright  fire  and  close-curtained 
windows,  and  then  he  smiled  upon  Elsie  and  said: 
"  Well,  my  dear,  so  you're  going  to  get  married !  I 
hope  the  lucky  young  man  is  going  to  be  shown  to  me. 
He'll  have  to  be  something  quite  special  if  I'm  to  be 
pleased  with  him." 

The  look  he  gave  her  was  very  kind,  and  he  turned 
it  upon  Rose,  too,  and  smiled  at  her.  The  two  girls, 
at  least,  it  was  plain,  had  found  favour  in  his  eyes. 
He  handled  the  close-cropped  polls  of  Bobby  and 
Billy,  and  said  that  Fred  had  told  him  they  were  good 
cricketers  already ;  and  he  put  his  hand  on  Penelope's 
shoulder,  and  said  she  was  like  her  mother.  In  the 
shortest  possible  time  he  had  shown  that  he  meant  to 
be  friendly  with  the  family,  but  Mrs.  Conway  had  not 
time  even  to  breathe  hard  once  at  having  had  no 
further  notice  taken  of  her  since  her  speech  of  welcome 
before  he  turned  to  her  and  said :  "  Well,  my  dear  lady, 
I  think  you  did  well  to  choose  a  country  life  for  your- 
self and  your  family.  You  look  hardly  older  than 
when  I  last  saw  you;  nor  does  Sydney,  now  I  come  to 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    381 

look  at  him ;  and  as  for  the  young  people,  the  sight  of 
them  makes  me  want  to  end  my  own  days  in  the  coun- 
try." 

Mrs.  Conway  swallowed  it.  She  had  put  on  at  least 
six  stone  in  weight  since  Uncle  Mark  had  last  seen  her ; 
her  hair  was  grey,  and  the  large  bones  of  her  face  had 
lost  the  softening  disguise  of  youthful  flesh.  But  she 
swallowed  it,  and  a  bland  smile  overspread  her  fea- 
tures. "  I  think  I  may  say  the  same  about  you,  Uncle 
Mark,"  she  replied,  with  ponderous  graciousness.  "  To 
see  you  looking  so  much  the  same  makes  me  feel  a  girl 
again." 

All  her  resentment  had  been  killed  in  a  moment. 
She  felt  friendly  and  at  ease,  and  but  for  the  hurried 
outbreak  of  talk  from  her  husband  which  immediately 
followed  her  speech  she  would  have  engaged  Uncle 
Mark  in  intimate  conversation  there  and  then,  and  ex- 
pected the  rest  of  the  family  to  stand  by  and  listen  to 
her. 

She  saw  her  way  clear  now.  It  would  be  easy,  in 
face  of  the  friendliness  he  was  evidently  anxious  to 
show,  to  have  a  pleasant  confidential  talk  with  him 
which  would  put  everything  right.  This  would  be  far 
better  than  ignoring  the  past  altogether.  She  would 
take  him  to  task,  gently  and  affectionately,  for  the 
absurdities  of  his  behaviour  thirty  years  before,  but 
without  showing  the  slightest  trace  of  ill-feeling  about 
it.  He  would  be  led  to  see  that  it  was  he  and  not  they 
who  had  suffered  most  from  the  long  estrangement ;  but 
she  would  show  him  how  entirely  ready  she  was  to  for- 
give and  forget,  and  the  end  would  be  a  cementing  of 
the  new  alliance  between  them,  in  which  Uncle  Mark 


382  WATERMEADS 

would  receive  more  from  the  loving  care  and  attention 
of  a  good  woman  than  he  could  return,  however  sub- 
stantial the  benefits  might  be  with  which  he  would  be 
eager  to  repay  them. 

It  was  rather  irritating,  then,  that,  until  the  time 
half  an  hour  later  when  Uncle  Mark  was  ensconced  in 
the  rooms  that  had  been  prepared  for  him,  she  should 
hardly  have  been  able  to  get  in  a  word  edgeways  with 
him.  It  was  not  only  her  daughters,  whom  she  had 
warned  against  this  very  behaviour,  who  took  up  more 
of  his  attention  than  could  have  been  wished  for;  but 
Sydney  and  Fred  constantly  cut  in  in  front  of  her 
when  she  was  on  the  point  of  speech — it  hardly  ever 
went  further  than  that — and  who  actually,  both  of 
them,  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  accompanying  Uncle 
Mark  upstairs,  to  see  that  everything  was  as  he  wished 
there.  That,  however,  she  *  would  not  have.'  If  re- 
duced, by  the  attitude  of  those  who  should  have  acted 
so  differently,  to  a  conversational  cipher,  she  would  at 
least  not  be  dislodged  from  her  place  as  mistress  of  the 
house,  and  solicitous  hostess.  She  attended  herself  to 
the  fires,  which  needed  no  attention,  in  both  rooms, 
pointed  out  to  Gates  the  wardrobe  and  the  chest  of 
drawers,  into  which  he  was  already  putting  his  mas- 
ter's clothes,  satisfied  herself  as  to  the  temperature  of 
the  hot-water  jug  standing  in  the  basin,  showed  Uncle 
Mark  where  she  had  put  writing-paper,  envelopes,  pen- 
holders, nibs,  blotting-paper,  ink — on  the  writing  table 
— slightly  shifted  the  position  of  an  easy  chair,  and 
put  a  footstool  in  front  of  it,  and  showed  in  every  way 
that  she  could  hardly  do  enough  for  the  welfare  of  her 


UNCLE  MARK  VISITS  WATERMEADS    383 

guest,  before  she  was  led  away,  almost  forcibly,  by  her 
husband. 

She  made  no  expostulations.  She  was  accustomed 
to  this  treatment,  she  told  herself,  and  it  was  her  duty 
to  put  up  with  it  without  complaint.  Her  time  with 
Uncle  Mark  would  come  on  the  morrow. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

UNCLE  MARK  LEAVES  WATERMEADS 

"  MY  dear  Sydney,  I  think  you  have  the  most  charm- 
ing family  that  I  have  ever  come  across.  I  wish  very 
much  that  I  had  known  them  earlier,  especially  those 
two  dear  girls  of  yours.  Why  you  have  kept  them 
buried  here  for  so  long  I  don't  know,  but  at  least  it 
has  done  them  no  harm." 

Sydney  was  getting  rather  tired  of  this  note,  which 
had  been  repeated  more  often  that  it  might  have  been 
thought  likely  that  a  man  of  Uncle  Mark's  ready  tact 
would  have  found  necessary. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  them,"  he  said.  "  They  are  dear 
girls,  and  they're  the  same  all  through.  As  for  keep- 
ing them  here,  I  don't  know  that  they  have  been  buried 
any  more  than  other  girls  in  country  houses,  and  if 
they  have  it  hasn't  been  my  fault.  I  haven't  had  the 
money  to  let  them  go  about." 

They  were  in  Uncle  Mark's  sitting-room  on  Sunday 
morning.  He  had  breakfasted,  and  was  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  by  the  window,  through  which  the  winter 
sunshine  was  streaming  gratefully.  He  had  announced 
his  intention  of  walking  to  church  later  on,  as  it  was 
so  fine,  and  had  asked  that  Sydney  should  come  and 
talk  to  him  beforehand. 

"  Well,  now,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you 
about  money,"  he  said.  "  I've  undertaken  to  see  Fred 

384 


UNCLE   MARK  LEAVES  385 

through,  you  know,  and  if  he  goes  on  as  well  as  he  has 
begun  he  ought  to  do  very  well.  But  as  we  have  made 
friends  again  after  all  these  years  you  must  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  letting  me  do  something  for  you,  Syd- 
ney. I'm  afraid  you  have  been  having  rather  a  hard 
time  in  this  great  barrack  of  a  house,  though  your 
children  haven't  suffered,  I'm  glad  to  see." 

Sydney  repented  of  his  momentary  annoyance,  and 
thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  but  almost  inaudibly. 
The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  too  much  for  him.  The 
help  that  he  had  begun  to  fear  would  not  be  held  out 
to  him  was  now  being  offered,  in  the  careless  but  gen- 
erous fashion  that  he  knew  so  well  of  old.  He  could 
not  convince  himself  that  Uncle  Mark  had  treated  him 
well,  but  if  he  was  now  ready  to  amend  his  treatment 
all  the  past  would  be  wiped  out.  They  would  be  to- 
wards one  another  what  they  had  been  thirty  years  be- 
fore. 

Uncle  Mark  went  on.  "  I  want  your  little  Elsie  to 
have  a  pukka  wedding,"  he  said.  "  If  it's  possible  at 
this  time  of  day  to  give  her  something  more  elaborate 
in  the  way  of  clothes  than  you've  been  able  to  manage, 
I  should  like  that  for  her.  I  shall  give  her  a  present 
myself,  naturally,  but  what  I  want  to  give  you,  Syd- 
ney, is  for  what  you'll  have  to  do  for  her,  to  get  mar- 
ried in  the  way  she  ought  to  be.  You'll  do  entirely 
what  you  like  with  it,  of  course;  but  that  was  in  my 
mind  when  I  wrote  the  cheque,  and  hoped  you  wouldn't 
mind  accepting  it  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

The  cheque  he  held  out  was  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
which  was  munificent  for  the  purpose  indicated,  but  so 
inadequate  for  any  other  purpose  that  Sydney  had 


386  WATERMEADS 

thought  him  prepared  to  consider  that  the  blow  to  his 
hopes  was  almost  overwhelming.  It  was  not  quite  so, 
because,  with  the  necessity  he  had  for  so  long  experi- 
enced of  taking  each  difficulty  as  it  came,  and  shutting 
his  eyes  to  the  one  that  should  come  after,  the  relief 
at  having  this  one  about  Elsie's  wedding  so  satisfac- 
torily solved  was  great.  Also,  the  possibility  of  larger 
adjustments  was  not  entirely  barred,  though  from  his 
manner  of  speaking  Uncle  Mark  did  not  appear  to 
have  them  in  his  mind. 

The  time,  however,  for  their  discussion  could  not  be 
now,  as  Sydney  had  hoped  it  might  be  when  summoned 
to  his  uncle's  presence.  The  handsome  present  was  in 
the  nature  of  a  blocking  motion,  which  made  it  impos- 
sible to  bring  the  larger  question  forward  until  a  new 
opportunity  should  arise,  and  Sydney,  grateful  for  the 
temporary  assistance  given  him,  but  with  a  sinking 
feeling  at  heart,  prepared  to  follow  him  in  amiable 
conversation  about  anything  but  the  cloud  that  was 
gathering  over  Watermeads.  For  Uncle  Mark  had 
waved  his  thanks  aside  in  his  own  large  manner,  and 
had  embarked  at  once  upon  a  flood  of  the  idle  but 
amusing  chatter  which  had  made  him  always  such  an 
agreeable  companion. 

He  was  delightfully  talkative  and  friendly  to  Elsie 
and  Rose  as  he  walked  between  them  to  church.  He 
confessed  that  he  did  not  often  go  to  church  in  Lon- 
don, but  in  the  country  he  rarely  missed  a  Sunday. 
"  It's  the  only  thing  left,"  he  said,  "  that  really  brings 
us  all  together,  those  at  the  top  and  those  at  the  bot- 
tom. At  least  it  ought  to,  and  if  I  stop  away  I'm 
not  doing  my  duty  by  the  opinions  I  hold.  Besides,  I 


UNCLE    MARK   LEAVES  387 

like  the  feeling  of  something  still  going  on  that  has 
gone  on  for  centuries.  You  know,  when  Mr.  Gladstone 
went  to  stay  in  Oxford  towards  the  end  of  his  life  he 
did  nothing  but  deplore  the  changes  that  he  saw  there ; 
so  if  a  great  respect  for  the  past  isn't  proper  for  an 
advanced  Radical  like  myself — but  of  course  it  is — 
I'm  in  good  company.  Oh,  yes,  an  old  country  church 
is  one  of  the  best  things  left  to  us;  and  when  it 
has  a  parson  like  that  perfectly  delightful  Vicar  of 

yours !  I  don't  know  that  I've  ever  met  a  country 

parson  I  liked  better." 

"  He's  a  darling,"  said  Elsie.  "  And  didn't  you  like 
Olivia,  Uncle  Mark?" 

"  My  dear !  If  I  were  fifty  years  younger — or  say 
forty — yes,  I  should  have  nourished  hope  forty  years 

ago !  But  what  can  Fred  have  been  thinking 

about  all  this  time?  I'm  not  going  to  waste  my  time 
over  Fred  now;  I  can  have  him  to  myself  when  I  can't 
have  you — but  I  shall  ask  Fred  a  serious  question 
when  I  do  talk  to  him  again.  If  I  had  seen  Olivia 
when  Fraulein  Blumenthal  was  brought  to  me  for  in- 
spection, I  shouldn't  have  made  the  mistake  of  think- 
ing she  would  do.  We  haven't  mentioned  Frank-in 
Blumenthal  before.  I  won't  ask  any  questions  about 
her.  I  take  it  that  you  saw  through  her,  in  a  way 
that  we  blind  men  can't.  We  are  all  taken  by  a  pretty 
face,  you  know,  even  the  oldest  of  us.  But  to  do  us 
justice  we  get  over  it  when  we  find  there's  nothing  else. 
Fred  has  got  over  it.  In  fact,  I  think  his  recovery  has 
been  a  wonderfully  quick  affair,  considering  how  badly 
he  was  hit,  poor  fellow!  I  don't  want  him  to  marry 
yet,  but  if  he  must  marry,  as  most  men  do,  I  think 


388  WATERMEADS 

he  had  better  not  wait  too  long,  considering  that 

Well,  I  mustn't  say  too  much,  but  that  would  give  me 
infinite  pleasure." 

Here  was  something  for  Elsie  and  Rose  to  think 
over.  That  Fred  had  completely  recovered  they  now 
knew,  and  were  very  glad  of  it,  though  they  were  a 
little  surprised,  too.  For  when  he  had  last  been  at 
Watermeads,  five  or  six  weeks  before,  he  had  not  com- 
pletely recovered,  and  the  plan  which  both  of  them  had 
formed,  directly  his  engagement  to  Freda  had  been 
broken  off,  of  encouraging  him  to  fall  in  love  with 
Olivia,  had  seemed  unlikely  of  fulfilment. 

And  yet  Fred  had  seemed,  even  in  his  then  state  of 
comparative  melancholy,  to  take  more  pleasure  in 
Olivia's  society  than  he  had  taken  at  any  time  since  her 
return.  He  had  '  made  it  up  with  her '  over  the  way  in 
which  he  had  received  her  warning  about  Freda.  She 
had  told  them  that  he  had  been  '  perfectly  sweet '  about 
it,  but  she  had  not  shown  on  her  side  any  anxiety 
to  '  catch  a  heart  on  the  rebound,'  as  they  had  hoped, 
from  experience  drawn  from  the  course  of  love  in  nov- 
els, might  come  about.  It  seemed  unlikely,  to  judge 
by  the  same  experience,  that  she  would  have  spoken  to 
them  about  Fred  in  the  frank  affectionate  way  which 
she  always  used,  without  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids  or  the 
slightest  change  of  colour,  if  she  had  been  in  love  with 
him.  But  she  was  undoubtedly  fond  of  him,  and  he 
of  her.  Their  close  friendship  might  blossom  into  love, 
although  there  were  no  signs  of  the  blossoming  at 
present. 

But  here  was  Uncle  Mark,  whose  every  word  had  a 
quality  of  omnipotence  about  it  in  his  present  relation- 


UNCLE   MARK   LEAVES  389 

ship  to  the  family,  taking  the  same  view  as  they  did 
about  Olivia,  and  the  extreme  advisability  of  Fred's 
marrying  her.  It  was  rather  exciting,  for  it  removed, 
at  least,  all  danger  of  his  quarrelling  with  Fred  on  the 
same  subject  as  he  had  quarrelled  with  his  father  about, 
if  Fred  should  fall  in  love  with  Olivia ;  and,  more  than 
that,  a  word  from  him  might  very  well  light  the  spark 
that  was  presumably  now  ripe  for  ignition  in  Fred's 
heart. 

What  a  dear  Uncle  Mark  was,  showing  himself  so  in- 
terested not  only  in  the  material  welfare  of  the  family, 
but  in  their  most  private  and  youthful  affairs !  He 
had  had  them  all  up  into  his  room  between  breakfast 
and  church  time,  and  made  them  the  most  magnificent 
presents — laughing  and  joking  the  whole  time,  and  re- 
fusing to  listen  to  a  word  of  thanks.  Elsie  a  hundred 
pounds  for  a  wedding  present,  Rose  twenty  '  for  a 
frock  or  a  little  bit  of  jewelry,'  Bobby  and  Billy  a 
fiver  each,  to  do  what  they  liked  with  '  except  to  put 
in  the  savings  bank,'  Penelope  a  golden  sovereign — 
there  Was  trouble  about  the  discrepancy  later,  and 
Bobby  and  Billy  each  gave  her  ten  shillings  on  the 
quiet,  and  to  keep  her  quiet.  The  way  he  had  given 
his  presents  had  been  such  fun,  and  had  quite  put  into 
the  shade  Cousin  Henry's  former  benevolences.  He 
seemed  to  be  made  of  money,  and  to  be  willing  to  be- 
stow it  wherever  it  was  wanted.  When  the  news  of 
his  thoughtful  and  splendid  present  for  Elsie's  wed- 
ding came  out,  of  which  he  refused  to  hear  a  word  fur- 
ther, it  was  felt  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  not  do, 
or  would  not  do,  to  make  life  smile  at  Watermeads.  He 
had  more  than  justified  the  expectations  aroused  by 


390  WATERMEADS 

his  visit.  But  it  still  remained  something  of  a  puzzle 
how  he  could  have  let  so  many  years  go  by  without 
taking  any  notice  of  them,  since  he  so  liked  young  peo- 
ple, and  was  so  wonderful  in  understanding  them. 

But  there  was  one  member  of  the  family  whom  the 
golden  stream  left  untouched.  Uncle  Mark  made  no 
tangible  present  to  Mrs.  Conway,  and  although  he  was 
abundantly  polite  whenever  necessity  demanded  that 
he  should  be  in  close  proximity  to  her,  he  showed  a 
surprising  agility  in  avoiding  it  at  other  times,  and 
seemed  anxious  to  keep  as  many  of  the  family  around 
him,  as  a  sort  of  bodyguard,  as  were  available  for  the 
purpose.  He  also  steadily  refused  to  listen  to  any 
speech  of  hers  beyond  its  second,  or  at  most  its  third 
sentence,  breaking  in  upon  it  with  a  quick  use  of  his 
own  wit,  and  a  courteous  smile  that  divested  the  in- 
terruption of  all  offence,  but  had  the  practical  effect 
of  keeping  her  out  of  the  circle  of  talk.  For  when  he 
had  thus  taken  the  ball  out  of  her  hands  he  always  re- 
turned it  to  one  of  the  others,  and  left  her  ruminating 
upon  another  opening,  which,  when  it  came,  was  as 
promptly  closed  to  her  as  the  one  before. 

It  was  all  so  dexterously  done,  however,  that  Mrs. 
Conway,  while  her  annoyance  began  to  burn  against 
her  daughters,  who  were  behaving  in  exactly  the  way 
she  had  warned  them  against,  had  no  suspicion  that 
Uncle  Mark  was  seeking  to  avoid  her,  conversationally 
or  in  any  other  way.  She  liked  him  immensely,  chiefly 
because  he  seemed  to  like  her  so  much.  She  even 
hugged  to  herself  a  sense  of  her  own  brilliance  in  con- 
versation, because  whatever  she  did  begin  to  say  was 
so  immediately  understood  and  so  cleverly  interpreted 


UNCLE   MARK  LEAVES  391 

that  it  gave  her  quite  the  air  of  being  clever  and  under- 
standing herself.  In  spite  of  the  unaccountable  way 
in  which  the  two  girls  had  ignored  her  warning,  and 
drawn  to  themselves  attentions  which  it  was  plain 
enough  that  Uncle  Mark  would  have  paid  to  her,  if  he 
had  been  left  to  himself,  she  could  see  how  he  was  feel- 
ing about  the  disastrous  mistake  he  had  made  thirty 
years  before.  He  showed  in  every  look  and  action  that 
he  acknowledged  how  wrong  he  had  been  in  his  judg- 
ment of  her.  But  she  wanted  him  to  say  so.  If  only 
she  could  get  him  to  herself  for  half  an  hour,  she  was 
sure  he  would  say  it  in  his  own  charming  fashion;  and 
then  would  be  her  chance  of  showing  on  her  side  how 
entirely  she  had  forgiven  and  forgotten. 

When  it  at  last  dawned  upon  her  that,  unless  she 
took  steps  to  create  the  opportunity,  Uncle  Mark 
might  leave  the  house  on  the  next  day  without  her  hav- 
ing had  a  word  alone  with  him,  she  told  him,  in  the 
presence  of  the  family,  that  she  wished  to  have  a  lit- 
tle private  talk.  They  had  been  sitting  over  the  tea- 
table  in  the  parlour,  and  Uncle  Mark  had  just  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  going  upstairs  to  write  a  few 
letters. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  upon  her  word.  "  That  will 
be  delightful,"  he  said,  beaming  upon  her.  "  Give  me 
half  an  hour  for  my  letters,  and  then  you  and  Sydney 
come  up  for  a  little  chat.  After  that  we'll  come  down 
again  and  amuse  ourselves  all  together  until  dinner 
time." 

He  almost  skipped  out  of  the  room,  and  had  shut 
the  door  behind  him  before  anything  further  could  be 
said. 


392  WATERMEADS 

Sydney  laughed.  "  What  is  our  little  private  talk 
to  be  about,  mother?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  think  he 
wants  one,  you  know.  If  he  did  he'd  have  said  so.  He 
and  I  had  our  little  private  talk  together  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mrs.  Conway  severely,  "  and  every 
other  member  of  the  family,  too,  except  myself.  I 
should  like  to  ask,  pray,  if  there  is  a  conspiracy  be- 
tween you  all  to  keep  me  entirely  shut  out  from  the 
intercourse  that  you  yourself,  Sydney,  and  all  my  own 
children  from  the  eldest  to  the  youngest,  find  so  agree- 
able. It  seems  to  me  quite  unaccountable,  the  way  in 
which,  the  moment  I  open  my  mouth  to  speak,  one  or 
another  of  you  breaks  in  and  takes  the  very  words  out 
of  my  lips.  Uncle  Mark  pays  me  the  most  courteous 
attention,  but  he  is  hardly  allowed  to  address  himself 
to  me  at  all.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  all  for- 
gotten yourselves  completely,  and  I  have  really  begun 
to  wonder " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there  has  been  anything  wrong, 
mother,"  said  Sydney.  "  Uncle  Mark  evidently  likes 
to  amuse  himself  with  the  youngsters,  and  we  old  peo- 
ple must  stand  aside  a  bit.  But  you  and  I  can  have 
a  little  chat  with  him  presently.  We'll  go  up  at  half 
past  six." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  was  moving  away,  but 
Mrs.  Conway  arrested  him.  "  I  shall  be  glad  if  you 
will  kindly  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say,  Sydney,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  extremely  distasteful  to  me  to  speak  be- 
fore the  children,  but  it  is  just  an  instance  of  the  un- 
accountable treatment  I  complain  of  that  when  I  pro- 
pose a  quiet  little  talk  with  Uncle  Mark,  you  should 


UNCLE   MARK   LEAVES  393 

immediately  consider  it  necessary  to  take  part  in  it 
yourself.  I  suppose  I  am  not  to  be  trusted  alone  with 
him.  Pray,  what  do  you  think  I  have  to  say  to  him, 
that  you  must  be  there  to  listen,  like  a  policeman,  and, 
if  I  am  to  judge  by  what  has  gone  on  ever  since  he 
came  into  the  house,  probably  to  prevent  my  saying 
anything  to  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come  now,  mother !  It  was  Uncle  Mark  him- 
self who  invited  me  to  join  your  little  confabulation. 
Why  should  you  object?" 

"  I  shouldn't  talk  to  him  about  anything  that  the 
whole  family  can't  join  in,  if  I  were  you,  mother,"  said 
Fred.  "  I  know  his  little  ways  pretty  well  by  this  time, 
and  it's  quite  obvious  that  he  doesn't  want  it." 

"  Bobby  and  Billy  and  Penelope,  leave  the  room," 
said  Mrs.  Conway. 

The  three  children  obeyed,  and  Elsie  and  Rose 
would  have  followed  them,  but  their  mother  ordered 
them  to  remain  where  they  were,  unless  they  had  lost 
all  sense  of  respect  and  obedience. 

"  Look  here,  mother,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  don't  think 
you  quite  understand  the  situation,  or  Uncle  Mark, 
either.  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  until  after  he 
had  gone,  but  perhaps  I  had  better  say  it  now,  though 
I  don't  want  it  to  make  any  difference  in  our  treatment 
of  him,  and  of  course  it  won't.  He  likes  all  the  chil- 
dren, and  has  been  extraordinarily  kind  and  generous 
to  them.  No  doubt  he'll  go  on  being  so,  and  I  think 
he'll  stick  to  Fred,  and  may  do  all  sorts  of  big  things 
for  him  by  and  by.  But  you  and  me — we're  back  num- 
bers, and  he  has  no  more  idea  of  taking  us  into  his  fa- 
vour and  helping  us  through  our  difficulties — at  least, 


394  WATERMEADS 

the  big  ones — than  he  has  had  at  any  time  these  last 
thirty  years.  I've  come  to  see  that  quite  plainly, 
knowing  him  as  I  do.  I  shan't  talk  to  him  at  all  about 
the  big  difficulties;  he  wouldn't  let  me  if  I  wanted  to. 
I  think  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  keep  silence, 
too.  He  won't  listen  to  you  any  more  than  he  will  to 
me.  Let's  be  grateful  to  him  for  what  he  is  doing  for 
Fred,  and  take  him  here  as  he  wants  to  be  taken. 
There's  nothing  more  to  be  expected  from  him." 

Mrs.  Conway  made  a  gesture  with  her  hands,  and 
emitted  a  sound  expressive  of  impatience.  "  Really, 
Sydney,"  she  expostulated,  "  for  a  man  of  supposed 
ability,  you  take  the  most  absurd  and  wrong-headed 
views  that  it  is  possible  to  imagine.  You  make  me  won- 
der sometimes  if  your  brain  is  not  giving  way.  No- 
body who  has  observed  Uncle  Mark  during  his  visit 
here  could  possibly  doubt — unless  they  are  determined 
to  shut  their  eyes  to  all  facts — that  he  has  been 
brought  to  see  the  enormity  of  his  mistake  in  the  past, 
and  that  he  is  determined  by  all  means  in  his  power 
to  put  it  right.  As  to  his  affording  pecuniary  relief 
in  the  difficulties  to  which  you  refer,  it  may  perhaps 
surprise  you  to  hear  that  nothing  has  been  farther 
from  my  mind  than  to  touch  upon  such  matters  with 
him,  and  I  must  say  that  I  am  surprised  and  pained 
to  find  that,  when  he  has  already  done  so  much,  and 
has  shown  himself  so  extraordinarily  generous,  you 
should  be  able  to  think  of  him  in  no  connection  but 
that.  It  is  not  the  right  spirit  in  which  to  regard  an 
affectionate  relative,  restored  to  us  after  years  of  es- 
trangement and  misunderstanding.  Personally  I  would 
rather  eat  bread  and  water  for  the  rest  of  my  days 


UNCLE   MARK  LEAVES  395 

than  show  myself  so  lacking  in  nice  feeling.  But  I  sup- 
pose that  nothing  7  can  say  or  do  will " 

"  Well,  we'll  have  our  chat  with  Uncle  Mark  in  half 
an  hour,  mother,"  said  Sydney,  preparing  to  leave  the 
room.  "  As  long  as  it  isn't  money  you  want  to  talk 
about,  I  don't  mind." 

Uncle  Mark  departed  next  morning  with  Fred,  leav- 
ing behind  him  some  very  agreeable  memories.  Mrs. 
Conway  had  not  been  able  to  make  an  opportunity  of 
assuring  him  of  her  forgiveness  for  the  past,  but  was 
convinced  that  she  had  only  been  prevented  from  do- 
ing so  by  the  mischievous  interference  of  her  husband 
and  children.  Uncle  Mark  had  been  cordial  towards 
her  to  the  end,  and  she  thought  that  when  he  wrote 
to  her  thanking  her  for  her  hospitality,  as  of  course 
he  would  do,  she  might  reply,  and  unload  herself  of 
some  of  the  many  things  she  had  wished  to  say  to  him. 
But  he  wrote  to  Sydney  instead,  and  only  sent  her  a 
message — a  warm  one,  it  is  true,  but  one  that  gave  no 
opening  for  a  return  letter  from  her.  She  was 
thwarted  to  the  last,  but  looked  forward  to  many  fu- 
ture visits  from  Uncle  Mark,  and  a  complete  under- 
standing between  them,  both  as  regarded  the  past  and 
the  future. 

Sydney  was  under  no  illusions  as  to  future  visits. 
He  knew  that  Uncle  Mark  had  no  intention  of  coming 
again,  and  that  the  breach  between  them  would  remain 
as  it  had  been,  except  that  an  interest  in  the  two  girls, 
and  possibly  in  the  two  younger  boys,  would  be  added 
to  his  interest  in  Fred. 

He  knew  very  well  why.  There  had  been  indications 
of  the  stirring  of  old  affections  towards  himself,  which 


396  WATERMEADS 

might  have  led  to  a  revival  of  their  close  relationship ; 
but  they  had  come  to  nothing.  Uncle  Mark  had 
broken  with  him  years  before  because  of  the  wife  he 
had  chosen  for  himself;  and  the  cause  of  offence  still 
remained. 


CHAPTER    XXX 

AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING 

THANKS  to  Uncle  Mark's  handsome  present,  Elsie  was 
married  from  Watermeads  in  a  way  that  would  not 
have  disgraced  the  house  in  its  former  affluent  days. 
Country  neighbours  were  entertained  to  an  old-fash- 
ioned breakfast,  which  lacked  nothing  in  profusion  or 
decoration.  The  library,  which  was  the  least  out  of 
repair  of  the  great  reception  rooms,  was  made  fit  for 
use,  and  in  it  were  displayed  a  collection  of  wedding- 
presents  which  in  number  and  quality  testified  to  the 
popularity  of  both  bride  and  bridegroom.  Elsie's 
trousseau,  also,  earned  the  admiration  of  her  girl 
friends.  A  round  sum  from  Uncle  Mark's  present  had 
gone  to  supplementing  the  somewhat  meagre  one  that 
had  first  been  allocated  to  it. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible  to  entertain  numer- 
ous guests  from  a  distance  without  putting  a  great 
many  more  rooms  into  repair;  but  the  Conways'  circle 
of  friends  was  now  almost  entirely  confined  to  those 
who  lived  near  them.  Sydney  had  no  relations  with 
whom  he  was  intimate,  and  Mrs.  Conway  was  in  a 
like  case,  except  for  Cousin  Henry  and  his  family. 
But  Cousin  Henry,  his  wife  and  his  eldest  daughter, 
who  was  to  be  a  bridesmaid,  were  invited  to  stay  at 
Watermeads  from  the  day  before  the  wedding  until  the 
day  after.  They  were  the  only  guests  who  slept  in 
the  house.  Edward's  relations  were  much  more  numer- 
ous, and,  it  must  be  confessed,  more  ornamental.  A 

397 


398  WATERMEADS 

large  party  of  them  assembled  at  Lutterbourne  Rec- 
tory, and  others  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  Lady 
Sophia  Raine,  who  showed  great  interest  in  the  affair 
from  beginning  to  end. 

Some  awkwardness  had  been  anticipated  over  the 
meeting  of  Fred  and  Cousin  Henry,  for  they  had  not 
parted  the  best  of  friends.  Indeed,  it  was  considered 
doubtful  if  Cousin  Henry  would  accept  the  invitation 
held  out  to  him.  But  he  did  so  without  demur,  and 
showed  no  animus  whatever  against  Fred  when  they 
met.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  have  entirely  reverted  to 
the  ponderous  but  placid  Cousin  Henry  of  his  former 
visit,  and  Elsie  and  Rose  had  some  difficulty  in  identi- 
fying him  with  the  ogre  he  had  made  of  himself  as 
Fred's  employer.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  not 
more  interesting  than  before,  but  behaved  themselves 
with  more  amiability  as  guests  than  they  had  done  as 
boarders.  Mrs.  Wilkins  even  allowed  Mrs.  Conway  to 
patronise  her,  and  her  daughter,  who  was  now  seven- 
teen and  quite  pretty,  seemed  anxious  to  make  friends 
with  her  girl  cousins,  and  at  least  justified  her  inclu- 
sion with  Rose,  Penelope,  Olivia  and  two  sisters  of 
Edward's  in  the  train  of  bridesmaids. 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Conway  that  Cousin  Henry  un- 
burdened himself  of  certain  matters  that  had  exercised 
him,  during  a  confidential  talk  on  the  evening  of  his 
arrival.  These  two  got  on  very  well  together.  Cousin 
Henry  thought  his  hostess  an  amiable  and  sensible 
woman,  in  contradistinction  to  the  views  that  his  wife 
held  about  her,  and  she  was  inclined  to  act  as  his 
backer,  and  to  show  all  and  sundry  that  she  at  least 
thought  her  own  relations  as  good  as  anybody  else's. 


AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  399 

It  seemed  that  Cousin  Henry  had  formed  matri- 
monial projects  for  Fred  and  one  of  his  daughters,  and 
had  been  greatly  disappointed  when  Fred  had  become 
engaged  to  Freda  Blumenthal.  He  had  never  meant 
his  dismissal  of  him  to  be  taken  seriously,  and  wondered 
now  whether  something  couldn't  be  fixed  up,  as  the 
other  affair  had  come  to  nothing.  Anybody  who  mar- 
ried one  of  his  daughters  would  find  himself  in  pos- 
session of  a  tidy  sum  with  her;  and  they  would  all 
get  a  good  deal  more  after  his  death  than  people 
might  think  from  the  quiet  way  in  which  it  suited  him 
to  live. 

Mrs.  Conway  received  the  proposal  politely,  and 
with  a  great  many  words,  the  total  effect  of  which  was 
that  under  present  circumstances  it  was  hardly  good 
enough.  Cousin  Henry  accepted  her  opinion  without 
resentment,  but  in  some  dejection.  He  said  he  sup- 
posed that  now  Fred  had  been  taken  up  by  his  grand 
relation  and  was  going  to  be  a  Member  of  Parliament 
and  all,  he'd  have  a  right  to  look  higher.  Well,  it  had 
only  been  an  idea  of  his,  and  Mrs.  Conway  needn't  let 
it  go  further;  but  he  would  say  this,  that  if  things 
had  turned  out  as  he  had  had  in  his  mind,  Fred  might 
easily  have  touched  the  three  thousand  a  year  mark 
before  he  was  thirty,  and  a  good  deal  more  than  dou- 
bled it  by  and  by,  to  say  nothing  of  what  his  wife 
would  have  had.  He  thought  he  should  like  this  to  be 
known  now,  as  it  had  all  come  to  nothing ;  and  it  might 
be  remembered  also  that  he  had  come  forward  with  his 
offer  at  a  time  when  the  gentleman  who  had  since  taken 
everything  in  hand  hadn't  lifted  a  little  finger  to  do 
anything  at  all. 


400  WATERMEADS 

Mrs.  Conway,  then  waxing  confidential,  told  him 
that  Uncle  Mark  had  not  entirely  fulfilled  the  expec- 
tations aroused  by  the  revival  of  relations  with  them. 
What  he  would  do  for  Fred  by  and  by  remained  to  be 
seen.  She  was  far  from  wishing  for  his  death;  such 
anticipations,  which  were  far  too  common  amongst 
people  with  rich  relations,  were  abhorrent  to  her;  but 
when  a  man  was  nearing  eighty  it  was  to  be  supposed 
that  he  would  die  at  some  time  or  other,  and  when 
Uncle  Mark  did  die,  the  probability  was  that  he  would 
leave  Fred  all  his  money.  Sydney  had  said  that  there 
was  not  the  slightest  chance  of  his  leaving  him  any- 
thing substantial,  and  had  said  it  so  strongly — almost 
with  violence — that  she  could  only  suppose  Uncle 
Mark  had  told  him  so  himself,  although  he  would  not 
admit  this  to  be  the  case.  She  would  not  go  into  the 
reasons  for  this  unaccountable  decision — preferring  a 
son  before  his  parents — but  there  were  certain  persons 
who  would  not  be  guided  in  their  treatment  of  others, 
or  in  the  management  of  their  own  affairs,  and  Cousin 
Henry  could  see  for  himself  that  Sydney,  against  whom 
she  did  not  wish  to  breathe  a  word  of  criticism,  was 
one  of  them.  As  she  was  speaking  to  a  relation,  and 
in  the  closest  confidence,  she  would  say  that  Sydney 
had  made  a  mess  of  things  in  dealing  with  Uncle  Mark, 
and  the  result  was  that  here  they  were  with  this  great 
house  on  their  hands,  and  a  property  that  hardly  sup- 
ported itself,  and  no  prospect  as  far  as  she  could  see, 
of  anything  but  ruin  in  two  or  three  years'  time  at  the 
most. 

Cousin  Henry  may  have  thought  that  this  was  a  hint 
to  him  to  come  to  the  rescue,  which,  to  do  Mrs.  Conway 


AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  401 

justice,  it  was  not,  all  she  wanted  being  a  ready  listener. 
He  said  perfunctorily  that  he  hoped  it  wasn't  as  bad 
as  that,  and  went  on  rather  hurriedly  to  the  affair  of 
Fred's  engagement  to  Freda,  and  Freda's  subse- 
quent engagement  to  Jack  Kirby.  This,  he  said,  was 
causing  great  excitement  in  Hillstead,  and  the  airs 
that  Blumenthal  gave  himself  over  his  daughter  mar- 
rying the  only  son  of  a  lord  were  something  beyond 
belief.  "They  do  say  though,"  he  said,  "that  the 
young  man  is  trying  to  get  out  of  it.  They  say  the 
wedding  has  been  put  off  once — I  don't  know  whether 
it's  true  or  not — and  no  date  is  fixed  for  it  yet, 
though  with  pots  of  money  on  both  sides  there's  no 
reason  why  they  shouldn't  have  been  married  long  ago. 

"  Of  course  the  money  would  have  been  a  great  help 
here,"  concluded  Cousin  Henry ;  "  but  the  Blumenthals 
are  nobodies,  and  as  the  Honourable  Kirby  doesn't 
have  to  consider  money  with  the  girl  he  marries,  it's 
not  to  be  wondered  at  if  he  gives  her  the  go  by  after 
all." 

Mrs.  Conway  let  it  be  known  that,  if  the  Blumen- 
thals were  nobodies,  the  Kirbys  were  hardly  more,  in 
the  estimation  of  their  neighbours.  "  Personally,"  she 
said,  "  I  would  prefer  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  such  people.  Lord  Kirby  is  quite  a  self-made 
man,  and  the  fact  that  he  has  been  raised  to  the  peer- 
age counts  for  nothing  in  these  days.  Why,  Mr. 
Blumenthal  could  be  raised  to  the  peerage  if  he 
paid  enough  money,  and  I  wonder  that  has  not 
occurred  to  him,  as  he  seems  to  think  so  much  of 
that  sort  of  thing.  However,  Sydney  likes  Lord 
Kirby,  and  he  and  his  wife  have  been  invited  here  to- 


402  WATERMEADS 

morrow.  As  for  the  son,  nothing  would  induce  me  to 
have  him  in  the  house,  and  if  that  horrible  cunning  dis- 
gusting girl  does  marry  him,  and  comes  to  live  at  Prit- 
tlewell,  I  shall  cut  her;  and  if  you  ever  have  the  op- 
portunity of  telling  her  so,  Henry,  I  shall  be  obliged 
if  you  will  do  so." 

Cousin  Henry  said  that  he  hardly  knew  the  Blumen- 
thals  himself — that  sort  of  person  wasn't  much  in  his 
line — and  owing  to  her  behaviour  to  Fred  neither  he 
nor  his  family  now  took  any  notice  of  Miss  Blumen- 
thal.  But  if  Lord  Kirby  would  like  to  hear  what  was 
thought  of  the  affair,  and  of  the  Blumenthals  gener- 
ally, by  the  more  respectable  inhabitants  of  Hillstead, 
and  Mrs.  Conway  would  introduce  them,  he  would  have 
great  pleasure  in  telling  him. 

The  introduction  was  made  on  the  following  day 
when  the  guests  were  assembled  in  the  library  after 
the  ceremony  in  church,  and  before  the  wedding  break- 
fast. It  was  very  long  since  any  room  at  Water- 
meads  had  been  thus  full  of  a  well-dressed  cheerful 
crowd,  most  of  them  in  the  best  of  humours  with  them- 
selves and  one  another,  and  creating  a  very  babel  of 
noise ;  but  Lord  Kirby  and  Cousin  Henry  found  a  cor- 
ner apart  and  had  an  agreeable  conversation  together. 

Lord  Kirby  was  beaming  with  good  nature,  and  was 
a  very  different  man  from  the  unhappy  one  who  had  re- 
cently taken  such  cold  comfort  from  a  visit  to  Water- 
meads.  He  was  only  too  pleased  to  make  the  reason 
of  his  cheerfulness  known  to  Cousin  Henry,  when  he 
heard  that  he  was  indirectly  interested. 

"  I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  we've  got 
out  of  it,"  he  said.  "  I've  no  wish  to  say  a  word 


AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  403 

against  the  young  woman,  now  the  danger's  past,  and 
she's  welcome  to  as  good  a  husband  as  she  can  get  by 
her  way  of  going  to  work  about  it.  But  my  boy 
ought  to  have  seen  what  she  was  up  to  from  the  sud- 
denness with  which  she  threw  over  our  young  friend 
here — as  nice  a  young  fellow  as  I  ever  wish  to  meet, 
and  well  out  of  such  a  marriage,  I  say.  Well,  he  did 
see  it,  I'm  happy  to  say,  when  she  began  to  make  eyes 
at  a  friend  of  his  staying  in  my  house.  I  won't  men- 
tion his  name,  but  he's  the  eldest  son  of  an  earl  of  an 
old  creation,  and  I  suppose  she  thought,  if  she  could 
catch  him,  that  would  be  better  than  marrying  the 
heir  to  a  new  barony.  So  I  dare  say  it  would  have 
been,  from  her  way  of  looking  at  things,  but  the  young 
man  wasn't  taking  any,  and  went  and  told  Jack  all 
about  it.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  say  that  Jack  came  to 
me.  If  he'd  gone  straight  to  her  she  might  have 
worked  round  him,  for  she's  as  cunning  as  the  devil. 
But  I  took  a  strong  line.  I  said,  *  Look  here,  my  boy, 
that's  not  the  sort  of  young  woman  you  want  to 
marry.  She'll  have  pots  of  money,  but  you  don't  want 
pots  of  money  with  the  girl  you  marry;  you  want 
something  else,  and  she  hasn't  got  it.  Pull  yourself 
together  and  throw  her  over,  as  she  threw  young  Con- 
way  over,'  I  said.  '  He's  got  over  it  all  right,  and 
you'll  get  over  it,  and  precious  glad  to  be  rid  of  such 
a  girl  in  a  few  months'  time.'  Well,  he  took  my  ad- 
vice. He  didn't  like  doing  it,  because  the  young  minx 
had  got  a  hold  over  him,  and  I  suppose  she  reckoned 
on  that,  and  thought  that  if  her  third  try  failed  she 
could  fall  back  on  her  second.  However,  she'll  find 
herself  left  now,  with  everything  to  begin  over  again, 


404  WATERMEADS 

and  no  great  chance,  I  should  say,  of  getting  hold  of 
anybody  who  would  have  suited  her  book  as  well  as 
Jack.  He  wrote  her  a  letter,  and  went  straight  off  to 
Canada — the  day  before  yesterday.  He's  going  to 
shoot  moose,  or  caribou,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
I  don't  care  what  he  shoots,  as  long  as  he  comes  back 
cured  from  his  infatuation  for  that  young  party." 

Cousin  Henry  expressed  deep  interest  in  this  re- 
cital, and  felt  it.  It  would  be  a  tit-bit  with  which  to 
regale  his  wife  by  and  by,  and  afterwards  his  friends 
at  Hillstead.  He  asked  Lord  Kirby  how  the  Blumen- 
thals  had  taken  it. 

"  Oh,  as  you  might  expect,"  said  Lord  Kirby,  with  a 
laugh.  "  They're  going  to  bring  an  action  for 
breach,  and  ask  for  unheard  of  damages.  But,  bless 
you,  they  won't  bring  any  action.  They  don't  want 
the  money,  and  it  will  queer  the  girl's  chances  for  ever, 
if  it's  brought  out  in  court  the  way  she's  behaved. 
Everybody  will  be  laughing  at  her.  They  wouldn't 
think  of  facing  it.  No,  Miss  Freda  will  have  to  swal- 
low it,  and  begin  all  over  again,  as  I  said.  Serve  her 
right,  too!  Fancy  not  being  content  when  she'd 
caught  my  son !  " 

There  then  was  the  end  of  Freda's  connection  with 
Watermeads,  and  of  the  disagreeable  possibility  of 
her  settling  down  as  a  neighbour  within  a  few  miles. 
To  no-one  did  Lord  Kirby's  news,  as  passed  on  by 
Cousin  Henry,  bring  greater  relief  than  to  Mrs.  Con- 
way,  who,  however,  stated  that  she  had  foreseen  it 
all  along,  and  gave  Cousin  Henry  to  understand  that, 
in  some  way  which  she  did  not  explain,  she  herself  had 
been  responsible  for  bringing  it  about.  The  rest  of 


AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  405 

the  family  said  very  little  about  it,  except  Penelope, 
who  cried,  when  a  Bowdlerised  version  of  the  episode 
was  put  before  her,  and  said  that  when  she  grew  up 
she  should  ask  Freda  to  live  with  her. 

One  of  the  most  gratifying  products  of  Elsie's  wed- 
ding was  the  pleasure  shown  in  it  by  Edward's  pa- 
rents. Sydney  had  from  the  first  been  a  little  doubt- 
ful as  to  the  way  in  which  they  would  take  it.  Sir 
Vivian  Probert  had  no  more  reason  to  wish  his  son 
to  marry  a  girl  with  money  than  Lord  Kirby,  but  the 
poverty  of  the  Conways  had  reached  such  a  pitch  that 
in  the  eyes  of  a  man  so  rich  as  Edward's  father  it 
might  possibly  have  outweighed  the  effect  of  their 
respectably  ancient  birth.  It  would  have  been  galling, 
at  least,  to  have  to  entertain  the  Proberts  to  the  kind 
of  wedding  which  was  all  that  could  have  been  af- 
forded Elsie  but  for  Uncle  Mark's  present. 

Elsie  had  stayed  with  them  in  Norfolk,  and  they 
had  taken  greatly  to  her.  And  Lady  Probert  had 
stayed  with  Edward  at  Lutterbourne  Rectory,  and 
helped  in  the  elaborate  furnishing  which  the  house  was 
undergoing;  but  she  had  not  come  over  to  Water- 
meads.  No  difficulties  whatever  had  been  made  about 
money  by  Sir  Vivian's  lawyers,  and  the  settlements 
upon  Elsie,  which  Sydney  had  left  entirely  to  the  other 
side,  had  been  handsome.  Nevertheless,  there  had  been 
a  sensation  of  doubt  in  Sydney's  mind.  They  had  ac- 
cepted Elsie  as  a  daughter-in-law,  but  he  dreaded  that 
in  some  way  or  other  they  might  show  themselves  not 
best  pleased  with  the  necessity.  Left  to  live  his  life  in 
the  way  that  suited  him,  Sydney  cared  little  for  out- 
side opinion,  and  wore  his  poverty  gracefully.  It  was 


406  WATERMEADS 

only  when  brought  into  contact  with  unavoidable  com- 
parisons that  he  showed  himself  thin-skinned  and 
nervous. 

But  everything  went  well.  Sir  Vivian  Probert  was 
a  gentle-mannered  courteous  man  who  looked  older 
than  his  years.  He  was  rather  deaf,  and  was  apt  to 
keep  silence  when  conversation  was  general.  But  he 
was  an  agreeable  companion  to  those  whom  he  liked, 
and  he  liked  Sydney  from  the  first,  and  Sydney  liked 
him.  He  took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  expressing 
his  pleasure  at  Edward's  marriage  with  Elsie,  and  did 
it  in  such  a  way  that  all  Sydney's  fears  were  swept 
away;  for  he  felt  that  his  girl  was  received  as  she 
deserved  to  be,  and  the  poverty  of  her  parents  did  not 
weigh  a  single  grain  against  what  she  was  in  herself. 
Edward's  young  sisters  showed  themselves  devoted  to 
her,  and  Lady  Probert  hardly  less  so. 

Lady  Probert  was  a  handsome  woman,  with  quiet 
and  distinguished  manners.  With  regard  to  her,  there 
was  probably  some  reason  for  the  kind  of  doubt  with 
which  Sydney  had  been  troubled.  She  was  as  nice  as 
possible  to  him,  but  towards  Mrs.  Conway  she  held 
herself  somewhat  stiffly.  That  lady  put  on  her  most 
majestic  air  of  dignity  in  conversation  with  her,  but 
they  spoke  to  one  another  very  little,  and  seemed  mu- 
tually pleased  to  keep  apart.  If  Edward  had  warned 
her  that  his  bride's  mother  was  not  quite  so  charming 
as  the  rest  of  the  family,  that  might  have  accounted 
for  her  having  stayed  for  a  week  at  Lutterbourne  with- 
out coming  over  to  Watermeads,  and  also  for  the  ab- 
sence of  warmth  which  she  now  showed  towards  her. 
These  speculations  crossed  Sydney's  mind,  and  were 


AT  ELSIE'S  WEDDING  407 

dismissed  from  it.  They  were  not  of  the  sort  that 
could  be  pursued  with  any  advantage. 

Sir  Vivian  showed  himself  greatly  interested  in 
Watermeads.  Sydney  took  him  and  his  wife  over  some 
of  the  rooms  of  the  house.  Lady  Probert  told  him 
that  her  husband  could  never  see  any  house  without 
wanting  to  live  in  it,  and  that  their  own  house  was 
always  being  altered  in  little  ways,  though  it  had  come 
to  them  so  perfect  that  it  was  difficult  to  improve  it. 
She  smiled  affectionately  at  her  husband,  who  seemed 
to  be  lost  in  a  dream  of  speculation,  as  he  looked 
round  the  splendid  rooms  which  only  wanted  money  ex- 
pended on  them  to  make  them  something  quite  ex- 
ceptional. She  knew  what  he  was  thinking  of.  It 
would  have  given  him  more  pleasure  to  have  such  a 
house  as  Watermeads  to  deal  with  than  to  contemplate 
his  own  beautiful  Elizabethan  Hall,  where  there  was 
nothing  left  to  do,  and  life  was  a  little  dull  for  a  man 
with  such  tastes  as  his. 

He  and  Sydney  went  round  the  gardens  after  break- 
fast. "  This  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  I  should  like  to 
develop,"  said  Sir  Vivian.  "  It  has  infinite  possibili- 
ties, and  one  could  go  on  for  ever,  and  never  spoil  the 
particular  charm  it  has  at  present.  My  garden  is  all 
formal — very  fine  of  its  sort,  but  there's  nothing  more 
to  be  done  with  it;  and  the  ground  all  round  it  is  as 
flat  as  a  pancake." 

"  If  you'd  like  to  rent  the  place,"  said  Sydney  with 
a  smile,  "  you  can  have  it  for  the  keeping  up.  I  can't 
afford  to  do  anything  here." 

"  I'll  think  about  that,"  said  Sir  Vivian,  in  all  seri- 
ousness. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  RETURN  OF  GILES 

GILES  BELLAMY  had  not  returned  to  Watermeads  in 
the  summer,  nor  had  he  been  there  since.  He  had  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  to  Elsie's  wedding,  but  had  after- 
wards written  to  say  that  he  should  not  be  able  to 
come,  as  his  father  was  ill.  He  had  written  once  to 
Sydney  before  this,  and  that  was  all  that  had  been 
heard  of  him. 

Sydney  had  been  rather  distressed  about  him.  After 
their  talk  together  at  Sandford  Hole,  he  had  at  least 
expected  him  to  pay  court  to  Rose.  He  had  said  that 
he  loved  her,  and  Sydney  had  let  him  know  that  his 
suit  would  be  welcome.  And  now  it  was  five  months 
since  he  had  left  them.  Had  he  drawn  back,  or  what 
was  the  reason  for  his  long  silence? 

His  first  letter,  written  a  week  or  two  after  he  had 
returned  home,  had  said  that  his  father  wanted  him 
at  home,  and  he  did  not  know  when  he  should  be  able 
to  leave.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  business  to  be 
done.  Then  the  weeks  had  passed,  and  nothing  further 
had  been  heard  from  him. 

His  brother  had  left  a  little  boy.  Sydney  had 
learnt  that  from  Lady  Sophia,  to  whom  it  came  nat- 
ural to  acquire  such  details  of  information.  So  Giles 
had  not  become  an  eldest  son  by  his  brother's  death, 
and  his  eligibility  was  no  more  marked  than  before. 

408 


THE   RETURN   OF  GILES  409 

After  a  time  Sydney  began  to  think  that  it  was  just 
as  well  that  nothing  had  come  of  his  fancy  for  Rose, 
which  did  not  seem  as  strong  as  he  had  thought  it 
himself,  since  he  had  let  all  these  months  go  by  with- 
out coming  near  her,  or  even  caring  to  have  word  of 
her.  Sydney  would  have  welcomed  Giles  as  a  son-in- 
law,  but  he  was  no  great  matrimonial  catch,  and  Rose 
was  very  young  still.  With  Elsie  gone,  Rose  counted 
for  more  than  before  at  Watermeads.  Her  father 
didn't  want  her  to  marry  anybody  at  present. 

But  soon  after  the  new  year,  Bellamy  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  Watermeads,  from  the  same  rooms  as  he 
had  occupied  before.  He  arrived  at  tea-time,  and  was 
given  a  welcome  that  ought  to  have  pleased  him.  Even 
Mrs.  Conway  expressed  pleasure  at  his  reappearance, 
and  rallied  him  heavily  about  not  having  let  them 
know  what  he  was  doing,  or  when  he  was  coming  back. 

He  was  not  much  more  communicative  about  himself 
than  before,  but  explained  shortly  that  he  had  been 
very  busy  with  his  father  over  estate  work  and  other 
family  matters.  His  father  was  not  in  good  health, 
and  wanted  him  with  him.  He  should  be  living  at 
home  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year;  he  was  going 
to  pack  up  the  things  from  his  rooms  in  the  village, 
and  would  return  home  in  a  week's  time. 

Sydney  walked  back  with  him  to  his  rooms  later  on. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  more  to  be  said,  and 
there  was  nowhere  at  Watermeads  to  say  it  in  private, 
for  all  the  family  congregated  in  the  parlour  in  the 
winter  time,  and  privacy  was  a  difficult  matter  to  ac- 
complish. 

Nothing  was   said   between   the   two   men   for   some 


410  WATERMEADS 

time  as  they  walked  together  down  the  drive  in  the 
winter  darkness,  faintly  lit  by  stars  in  a  clear  sky. 
Sydney  felt  some  slight  annoyance  with  his  companion. 
If  he  had  come,  after  all  these  months,  expecting  to 
be  received  on  the  same  terms  as  those  on  which  he 
had  left,  it  was  surely  his  part  to  say  so.  It  was 
not  for  Sydney  to  ask  for  explanations,  though  he 
wanted  to  hear  them. 

Presently  Giles  did  speak,  and  without  any  prelim- 
inary beating  of  the  conversational  bush.  "  I've  come 
down  here  purposely  to  ask  Rose  to  marry  me,"  he 
said,  "  if  you  still  give  me  your  permission." 

"  Oh,  have  you  ?  "  said  Sydney  drily.  "  I  thought 
you'd  forgotten  all  about  her." 

"  Did  it  look  like  that  ?  "  replied  Giles  at  once,  with- 
out taking  any  notice  of  the  stiffness  of  his  manner. 
"  No,  I  wasn't  likely  to  forget  her.  But  things  have 
changed  for  me  a  good  deal  at  home.  My  father  felt 
my  brother's  death  very  keenly.  He  never  seemed  to 
care  for  me  much  as  long  as  Geoffrey  was  alive;  but 
that's  all  changed  now.  He  can't  do  without  me.  He 
was  always  waiting  for  Geoffrey  to  go  and  settle  down 
there  and  look  after  things  with  him,  and  now  Geof- 
frey's dead  I've  got  to  do  it.  In  fact,  as  long  as  he's 
alive  I've  got  to  drop  the  artist  and  live  and  behave 
as  a  country  gentleman;  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  as 
an  estate  agent,  for  it's  my  father  I  shall  have  to  look 
after  the  place  for  now,  and  when  he  dies  it  will  be  my 
nephew." 

He  seemed  to  have  said  all  he  had  to  say  for  the 
present.  "  Well,"  said  Sydney,  after  a  pause  of  re- 
flection, "  then  what  about  Rose?  " 


THE   RETURN   OF  GILES  411 

"  I  told  my  father  that  I  wanted  to  get  married.  I 
said  that  if  I  settled  down  at  home  I  must  have  a  house 
of  my  own  and  an  income.  It  is  that  that  has  kept  me 
so  long  away." 

"  You  mean  he  didn't  see  it." 

"  He  was  prepared  to  give  me  an  income,  but  he 
wanted  me  to  live  at  home  with  him  and  my  mother, 
and  the  child.  But  he  has  given  way  now.  I'm  to 
have  my  house — it's  a  very  pretty  one — and  a  thou- 
sand a  year — if  I  marry.  If  I  don't,  I  shall  live  with 
them  at  the  big  house.  It's  all  agreed  upon  now ;  and 
that's  what  I  have  to  offer  Rose." 

"  Well,  I've  no  objection  to  your  offering  it  to  her," 
said  Sydney,  after  another  pause.  He  was  unable  to 
say  it  with  any  warmth.  He  liked  Giles,  though  his 
reserve  and  matter-of-factness  were  not  the  qualities 
that  made  him  like  him,  and  they  were  all  that  were 
apparent  just  at  the  moment.  But  what  he  had  to 
offer  with  himself  was  nothing  very  brilliant  for  a  girl 
as  beautiful  as  Rose,  and  Sydney  remembered  that  so 
far  it  had  been  he  only  who  had  encouraged  Giles  to 
hope  for  Rose,  and  was  rather  sorry  that  he  had  done 
so,  now  that  the  danger  of  her  marrying  someone 
whom  he  disliked  was  quite  of  the  past. 

"  I'll  make  her  happy  if  she'll  have  me,"  said  Giles. 

Sydney  was  touched  by  something  in  his  voice. 
"  Oh,  my  dear  fellow,  I'm  sure  you  will."  Then  he 
laughed  and  threw  off  his  restraint.  "  The  fact  is," 
he  said,  "  that  one  has  been  rather  spoilt  by  Elsie's 
marriage.  Still,  one  has  no  right  to  expect  that  for 
both  one's  daughters.  Try  your  luck,  Giles.  I  don't 
know  whether  she'll  have  you  or  not.  She  likes  you— 


412  WATERMEADS 

we  all  do — but  I've  seen  no  signs  of  anything  else.  I 
shall  say  nothing  to  anybody  until  you  come  and  tell 
me  something  further." 

Giles  tried  his  luck  the  next  day.  He  and  Sydney 
went  for  a  long  walk  in  the  morning,  with  Rose  and 
Olivia.  Giles  and  Rose  gradually  dropped  behind. 
Sydney  remembered  his  undertaking  of  the  night  be- 
fore, but  did  not  consider  it  so  binding  on  him  that  he 
need  refrain  from  saying  to  Olivia  with  a  smile :  "  Do 
you  think  anything  very  serious  is  going  on  between 
those  two  behind?  " 

Olivia  looked  at  him  with  startled  surprise.  "  What, 
have  you  seen  it  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  Sydney's  turn  to  show  surprise.  "  Seen 
what  ?  "  he  asked. 

Olivia  hesitated,  and  turned  her  eyes  away  from 
him.  "  Oh,  nothing,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  from 
what  you  said " 

She  broke  off.  "  Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 
"  What  7  meant  was  that — oh,  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  say  it,  though  I  said  I  wasn't  going  to — 
Giles  wants  to  marry  Rose,  and  I  wondered  whether 
he  was  telling  her  so." 

A  blush  crept  over  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  at  him 
again.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  He  told  me  so.  Come  now,  Olivia, 
what's  your  little  secret?  Is  it  that  she  wants  him  to 
tell  her  so  ?  You  can't  have  seen  that,  have  you  ?  " 

She  laughed  at  him  now.  "  Of  course  I've  seen  it," 
she  said,  "  for  ages  past,  and  so  has  Elsie.  You  must 
be  blind  if  you  haven't;  but  I  believe  men  are  all  blind 
in  those  matters." 


THE  RETURN   OF  GILES  413 

He  wanted  to  hear  more.  It  was  incredible  to  him 
that  this  had  been  going  on,  and  he  had  had  no  idea 
of  it,  loving  Rose  as  he  did  and  watching  her  so  care- 
fully. But  Olivia  convinced  him.  "  I  think  7  sus- 
pected it,"  she  said,  "  when  everybody  else,  even  Elsie, 
thought  she  liked  Jack  Kirby.  I'm  sure  she  didn't 
know  it  herself  then,  though;  but  it  was  partly  that 
that  was  making  her  unhappy.  She  hasn't  been 
happy,  you  know,  since  Giles  went  away.  Didn't  you 
notice  her  when  his  letter  came  to  say  that  he  couldn't 
come  to  Elsie's  wedding?  " 

No,  Sydney  had  not  noticed  that,  nor  various  other 
little  signs  that  had  been  as  plain  as  print  to  Olivia's 
sympathetic  eyes.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  he  does  love 
her,"  she  said  happily.  "  I  thought  he  must,  but  I 
couldn't  be  sure.  Dear  Mr.  Conway,  do  you  really 
think  he  can  be  telling  her  so  now  ?  " 

"I'll  risk  a  look  back,"  said  Sydney.  "If  they 
have  fallen  a  long  way  behind " 

He  looked  back,  but  Giles  and  Rose  were  nowhere 
to  be  seen,  in  the  long  straight  road  between  the  beech 
woods  up  which  they  had  been  walking. 

"  They've  given  us  the  slip,"  said  Sydney.  "  I  think 
that  settles  it." 

The  news  that  was  presently  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Con- 
was  such  a  surprise  to  her  that  she  was  unable  at 
first  to  say  that  she  had  seen  it  coming  all  along,  al- 
though she  did  say  so  later  to  Lady  Sophia,  and  quitr 
believed  it.  Rose's  happy  blushing  face,  as  she  told 
her  that  she  and  Giles  had  found  out  that  they  loved 
one  another,  should  have  given  her  a  great  deal  of 


414  WATERMEADS 

pleasure,  but  she  was  unfortunately  not  apt  to  be 
much  affected  by  the  happiness  of  her  elder  daughters, 
and  her  mind  had  to  adapt  itself  to  the  material 
side  of  the  question  before  she  could  have  leisure  to 
regard  the  sentimental.  When  she  was  told  all  that 
had  been  settled,  she  expressed  a  modified  approval, 
but  this  attitude  did  not  bring  her  enough  of  satis- 
faction, and  it  was  finally  on  the  sentimental  side  of 
the  engagement  that  she  concentrated  herself. 

"  No  doubt,"  she  said  to  Lady  Sophia,  "  the  world 
will  consider  us  demented  to  permit  a  daughter  of  ours 
to  marry  a  man  with  so  little,  but " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  interrupted  Lady 
Sophia.  "  I  don't  call  a  thousand  a  year,  with  a 
charming  house  thrown  in,  so  very  little.  Lots  of  peo- 
ple better  off  than  you,  Jane,  would  jump  at  it  if  the 
man  was  all  right ;  and  Giles  Bellamy  is  all  right.  I've 
had  him  under  my  eye  for  some  time  now,  and  I  ap- 
prove of  him." 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say  that  it  is  his  character, 
and  his  deep,  though  unassuming  love  for  Rose,  that 
makes  one  think  nothing  of  possibly  straitened  means," 
said  Mrs.  Conway.  "  In  my  mind  love  is  everything 
in  these  matters.  If  Rose  had  married  young  Kirby, 
as  at  one  time  seemed  not  improbable,  I  doubt  if  I 
should  ever  have  got  over  it.  The  wealth  and  rank 
he  would  have  given  her  would  only  have  been  the  gold 
framing  to  a  picture  of  misery  such  as  I  should  trem- 
ble to  anticipate  for  a  daughter  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lady  Sophia,  "  as  that  little  affair 
didn't  come  off,  it's  just  as  well  to  say  that  we  didn't 
want  it  to.  I  don't  object  to  young  Jack  myself,  and 


THE   RETURN   OF  GILES  415 

I  think  he'd  have  made  quite  a  good  husband  for  Rose 
if  the  minx  hadn't  come  between  them.  It  would  have 
been  nice  to  have  had  her  at  Prittlewell,  too,  instead 
of  right  up  there  in  the  wilds  of  Cumberland.  Still, 
if  she's  happy,  dear  child!  Oh,  I  think  it's  quite  a 
good  marriage  for  her,  Jane.  I  was  talking  to  Ron- 
ald Grenville  up  in  London  the  other  day.  He  knows 
all  about  art  and  artists.  He  said  that  Giles  Bellamy 
was  a  very  rising  man,  bound  to  be  an  Academician  be- 
fore long.  So  that's  something  to  look  forward  to. 
I  don't  suppose  it  will  begin  and  end  with  a  thousand 
a  year.  No;  you've  done  remarkably  well  for  Elsie, 
and  not  at  all  badly  for  Rose.  In  fact,  things  seem 
to  be  looking  up  all  round.  Is  Mark  Drake  going  to 
do  anything  for  Sydney,  by  the  by?  Watermeads  is 
still  the  weak  spot,  isn't  it?  With  Elsie  and  Rose  set- 
tled, and  Fred  on  his  way  to  be  Prime  Minister,  it's 
a  pity  you  can't  fix  yourselves  up  more  comfortably 
here." 

It  was  true  that  Watermeads  was  still  the  weak 
spot.  Sydney  talked  about  it  to  Giles,  who  had  been 
so  closely  connected  with  the  family  life  that  it  held 
few  secrets  from  him. 

"  Of  course  we've  had  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
good  fortune  lately,"  he  said.  "  Elsie  and  Rose — well, 
in  the  state  to  which  we  have  been  reduced,  one  could 
hardly  have  expected  either  of  them  to  marry  so  well. 
Then  there's  Fred  provided  for — unless  he  gets  up 
against  Uncle  Mark,  as  I  did ;  but  I  don't  think  that's 
likely  to  happen.  If  Uncle  Mark  makes  him  his  heir, 
then  Watermeads  will  be  all  right,  too.  But  in  the 
meantime  what's  to  happen  ?  " 


416  WATERMEADS 

"It's  hard  luck,"  said  Giles.  "It's  such  a  jolly 
place,  too.  You  know  I  think  it's  jollier  as  it  is  now 
than  if  it  were  kept  up  like  other  country  houses.  I 
shall  never  forget  last  summer;  Edward  Probert  won't 
either." 

Sydney  laughed.  "  You  were  both  in  love,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  enjoyed  the  summer,  too.  There's  a  lot  to  be 
said  for  a  simple  way  of  living — amongst  friends.  If 
one  could  live  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  as  one  does, 
and  not  feel  that  all  the  rest  was  going  downhill  fast! 
But  one  can't  even  do  that  with  an  easy  mind.  I'm 
selling  things  all  the  time  to  keep  us  going.  What 
does  one  do,  Giles,  in  a  case  like  mine?  There  must 
be  plenty  of  other  land-owners  whose  property  doesn't 
support  them." 

"  I  suppose  they  have  to  sell  sooner  or  later.  Or 
else  they  let  their  big  houses,  and  live  in  smaller  ones." 

"  If  I  could  do  that !  I  really  thought  Vivian 
Probert  had  an  idea  of  renting  the  place.  He's  got  a 
fine  house  of  his  own,  of  course,  but  he's  got  heaps  of 
money,  and  I  thought  he'd  taken  enough  of  a  fancy  to 
Watermeads  to  want  it.  But  that  possibility  seems  to 
have  disappeared,  like  all  the  others.  He'd  have  to 
spend  thousands  on  putting  the  place  into  habitable 
repair  before  he  began  to  amuse  himself  with  it,  and 
I  suppose  that  frightens  him  off.  If  I  could  only  do 
it  myself,  I  believe  I  could  get  a  good  rent  for  the 
house.  Then  I  would  go  and  live  at  Manor  Farm,  and 
look  after  the  place  from  there.  I  wish  I  could.  I'm 
getting  tired  of  the  struggle,  Giles.  I  love  Water- 
meads,  but  I've  devoted  the  greater  part  of  my  life  to 
it,  and  it's  getting  too  much  for  me.  I  should  be  glad 


THE   RETURN   OF  GILES  417 

to  let  it  go  now — at  least  for  my  life-time.  I  should 
like  to  see  Fred  here  some  day,  but  I'm  inclined  to 
think  I  shan't  be  able  to  keep  it  for  him.  Well,  it's 
on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  They  have  been  holding  out 
one  hope  after  another  during  the  last  year,  and  then 
withdrawing  them.  Yet,  somehow,  I  can't  feel  that  I'm 
going  to  lose  Watermeads  altogether,  after  keeping  it 
going  for  so  long.  Something  will  turn  up.  I  haven't 
really  given  up  hope  yet." 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

AT  MANOR  FARM 

JUNE  had  come  round  once  more.  All  the  lilacs  and 
thorns  and  laburnums  and  syringas  were  flowering  in 
the  overgrown  gardens  of  Watermeads,  to  say  nothing 
of  rhododendrons  and  azaleas,  and  the  countless 
flowers  that  grew  among  the  tall  grasses  of  the  once- 
trim  lawns,  and  made  them  so  much  more  beautiful, 
just  for  this  month  at  least,  than  they  had  been  in  the 
days  of  their  shaven  pride. 

But  the  period  of  neglect,  however  occasionally 
happy  in  its  results,  was  coming  to  an  end  for  Water- 
meads.  The  vast  repairs  that  had  become  necessary 
to  keep  the  house  from  tumbling  about  its  owners'  ears 
had  been  set  in  hand,  and  were  now  nearly  complete; 
and  when  the  structural  repairs  which  absorbed  so 
much  money  and  showed  on  the  surface  so  little  re- 
sult, should  be  finished,  there  would  set  in  a  further 
period  of  revivification,  which  would  restore  the  old 
house  to  the  glories  of  its  past,  and  make  it  once  more 
one  of  the  rich  and  stately  country  homes  of  England. 

For  Sydney  Conway  had  found  the  money  to  restore 
the  fabric  of  his  house,  and  Sir  Vivian  Probert  was  go- 
ing to  rent  it,  when  it  should  be  put  in  sufficient  order 
to  enable  him  to  exercise  his  taste  upon  it. 

A  few  days  after  Giles  Bellamy  had  returned  to 
Cumberland — it  having  been  settled  that  his  marriage 

418 


AT  MANOR  FARM  419 

with  Rose  should  take  place  at  Easter — he  had  written 
to  Sydney  with  a  story  that  had  aroused  excitement  at 
Watermeads. 

It  was  the  story  of  Holbein's  *  Unknown  Lady.' 
Some  diligent  German  investigator  had  got  on  to  the 
track  of  a  once  known  picture  of  Holbein's — or  rather 
on  to  the  fact  of  there  having  been  such  a  picture, 
whose  whereabouts  had  been  known  until  early  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  It  had  then  disappeared  com- 
pletely. A  good  deal  had  been  written  about  it  in  art 
magazines  and  papers  in  Germany,  and  several  pic- 
tures had  turned  up  claiming  to  be  the  lost  master- 
piece. But  they  had  either  been  manifest  forgeries,  or 
had  not  tallied  with  the  close  description  of  the  orig- 
inal which  had  been  the  investigator's  discovery. 
Until  now,  the  interest  had  been  confined  to  Germany, 
but  Giles  had  seen  the  first  mention  of  it  in  an  English 
periodical,  and  the  description  there  given  had  tallied 
with  what  he  remembered  of  the  picture  at  Water- 
meads. 

On  the  same  morning  as  Giles's  letter  had  been  re- 
ceived, the  expert  who  had  recently  decided  against 
the  authenticity  of  the  Watermeads  picture  had  paid 
an  unheralded  visit  to  look  at  it  again.  He  had  then 
unhesitatingly  pronounced  it  to  be  genuine,  and  tin- 
one  that  was  being  sought  for,  and  had  offered  to  sell 
it  at  a  high  price,  with  a  suitable  commission  to  be 
paid  to  himself. 

Others  visitors,  all  more  or  less  anxious  to  do  some- 
thing for  themselves  in  the  matter,  had  followed  in 
quick  succession,  and  an  offer  from  one  of  them  of  five 
thousand  pounds  down  for  the  picture — the  purchaser 


420  WATERMEADS 

to  take  all  risks — had  nearly  been  accepted  by  Syd- 
ney. But  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  ask  if  the  prin- 
cipal for  whom  the  agent  was  acting  happened  to  be 
a  certain  Mr.  Hermann  Blumenthal.  The  agent  had 
refused  to  disclose  the  name  of  his  principal,  but  had 
already  shown  by  the  way  he  had  taken  the  unexpected 
question,  that  the  guess  was  probably  a  true  one. 
"  Then  you  can  go  back  and  tell  Mr.  Blumenthal,  if 
it's  he  who  wants  to  buy  it,"  said  Sydney,  "  that  I 
wouldn't  sell  it  him  for  fifty  thousand.  And  you  might 
ask  him,  too,  if  he  happened  to  have  heard  anything 
about  the  missing  picture  from  Germany  when  he  saw 
this  one  last  August." 

By  and  by,  however,  Sydney  was  almost  inclined  to 
wish  that  he  had  closed  with  this  offer,  even  though 
Mr.  Blumenthal  had  shown  himself  in  so  mean  a  light 
about  it.  For  controversy  raged  hotly  over  the  pic- 
ture, which  was  sent  up  to  London  to  be  exhibited, 
and  there  were  at  least  as  many  who  scoffed  at  the 
idea  of  its  genuineness  as  of  those  who  were  convinced 
by  it.  If  he  had  been  able  to  provide  any  evidence  as 
to  its  purchase  by  whatever  ancestor  of  his  had 
brought  it  to  Watermeads  the  scoffing  might  have  been 
silenced.  But  the  most  diligent  research  failed  to  pro- 
duce any  reference  to  the  picture  whatever.  There  was 
nothing  even  to  show  that  Grandfather  Frederic,  who 
had  reigned  at  Watermeads  at  about  the  time  the  pic- 
ture seemed  to  have  been  last  known  of  in  Germany, 
had  ever  visited  that  country.  But  he  had  bought 
pictures  elsewhere,  and  there  was  a  record  of  some  of 
his  purchases.  This  cut  both  ways,  for  if  he  was  made 
out  to  be  something  of  a  connoisseur,  which  was  to 


AT  MANOR  FARM  IJ1 

the  good,  why  had  he  left  nothing  in  writing  about 
such  a  valuable  find  as  this?  Sydney's  opinion,  ex- 
pressed only  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  was  that  it 
was  certainly  he  who  had  brought  the  Holbein  to 
Watermeads,  but  that  he  had  probably  acquired  it  dis- 
honestly, and  had  been  wise  to  say  nothing  about  it. 

Eventually  the  picture  had  been  sold  at  auction  and 
had  fetched  eight  thousand  pounds, — a  very  inad- 
equate price  if  it  was  really  the  missing  picture,  but 
a  very  satisfactory  one  if  it  were  not.  Sydney  was 
inclined  to  hope  that  evidence  would  turn  up  to  show 
that  it  was  not,  when  Mr.  Blumenthal  was  declared  to 
have  been  the  ultimate  purchaser. 

But,  at  any  rate,  there  had  been  the  money  with 
which  Watermeads  could  be  put  into  structural  repair, 
and  Manor  Farm  adapted  for  the  residence  of  him- 
self and  his  now  depleted  family.  And  directly  the 
repairs  had  been  set  in  hand,  Sir  Vivian  Probert  had 
offered  to  rent  Watermeads  as  his  second  country 
house,  and  terms  had  been  agreed  upon  in  about  the 
time  that  it  had  taken  Mr.  Blumenthal  to  reach  his 
first  objection  in  a  similar  negotiation.  x 

The  repairs  to  Watermeads  were  nearing  comple- 
tion ;  the  adaptation  of  Manor  Farm  was  already  com- 
pleted. Giles  and  Rose  were  staying  there  on  their  n 
turn  from  their  honey-moon  tour.  Edward  and  Elsie 
had  come  over  from  Lutterbourne  for  the  afternoon. 
Fred  had  come  down  for  the  week-end.  The  enlight- 
ened electors  of  West  Russetshire  had  given  him  a  ma- 
jority of  seventeen  votes  over  his  opponent,  and  he 
now  represented  them  in  Parliament,  when-  lu-  pro- 
fessed himself  enormously  busy;  but  his  cares  did  not 


422  WATERMEADS 

appear  to  sit  very  heavily  on  him  when  he  came  down 
to  Watermeads,  which  he  had  done  almost  every  week 
during  the  spring.  Olivia  had  come  to  tea,  to  see 
Elsie  and  Rose,  and  they  were  all  to  play  tennis  after- 
wards, quite  in  the  happy  way  of  the  previous  sum- 
mer, but  on  the  newly  laid  court  at  Manor  Farm  in- 
stead of  at  Watermeads.  The  only  absentees  of  the 
family  were  Bobby  and  Billy,  now  blissfully  happy  in 
their  first  summer  term  at  Charterhouse,  whence  they 
wrote  home  weekly  letters  exuding  cricket  at  every 
pore. 

Manor  Farm  was  as  pretty  a  country  house  of  its 
size  as  could  be  found  anywhere.  It  was  stone-built 
and  stone-roofed,  and  nestled  amongst  its  trees  in  a 
setting  of  garden  and  orchard,  busy  steading,  mellow 
barns  and  outbuildings,  deep-grassed  meadows,  with 
the  river  running  its  placid  course  not  far  away — a 
very  haunt  of  country  peace  and  contentment.  Its 
fifteenth  century  timbered  hall,  running  up  to  the  roof, 
had  been  restored,  and  made  as  pleasant  a  family  meet- 
ing place  as  the  great  hall  at  Watermeads.  Round  it 
clustered  an  irregular  series  of  rooms,  some  large  and 
some  small,  which  gave  as  much  accommodation  as  the 
family  which  now  so  happity  occupied  it  could  want. 
There  were  spacious  '  offices  '  besides,  in  which  Cooky 
had  found  herself  a  new  home  almost  as  much  to  her 
taste  as  the  last,  though  she  had  not  yet  been  brought 
to  acknowledge  it.  Alice  remained  as  housemaid,  and 
there  was  a  parlour-maid  besides.  There  was  a  groom- 
gardener,  and  a  boy  to  help  him  in  his  dual  occupa- 
tion; and  there  were  horses  in  the  stables,  and  not 
only  farm  horses. 


AT  MANOR  FARM 

"  Do  you  remember,  mother,"  said  Sydney,  over  tea 
in  the  hall,  "  that  about  this  time  last  year  we  were 
waiting  for  a  telegram  from  Fred  to  tell  us  what 
Grandfather  John  had  fetched  at  Christie's?  We  were 
full  of  hope,  of  course — we  always  were  in  those  days 
— but  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  could  have  expected  to 
be  so  happy  in  a  year's  time  as  we  all  are  now.  We've 
really  been  extraordinarily  lucky.  But  what  a  lot  has 
happened  since  then,  eh?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  breathed  deeply.  She  had  gained  at 
least  as  much  from  the  changes  that  had  taken  place 
as  her  husband.  She  had  enough  money  and  enough 
servants  to  relieve  her  of  all  necessity  for  domestic 
contrivance;  she  could  entertain  her  friends  whenever 
she  wished  to,  and  she  had  her  carriage  once  more,  in 
which  she  could  visit  them  in  turn.  All  the  limitations, 
in  fact,  under  which  she  had  laboured  for  so  many 
years  had  been  removed;  but  so  had  the  grievances 
which  had  added  salt  to  her  life  and  point  to  her 
tirades.  She  had  taken  refuge  in  a  sombre  reserve, 
big  with  the  sense  of  irretrievable  loss,  but  was  grad- 
ually finding  expression  for  this  attitude,  and  in  quite 
a  short  time  might  be  expected  to  have  as  much  to  say 
about  the  unaccountable  behaviour  of  those  about  her 
in  making  themselves  happy  under  the  bereavement  as 
when  she  had  raised  her  voice  in  protest  under  the 
heavy  burden  of  existence  at  Watermeads. 

"  If  you  are  referring  to  Elsie  and  Rose,  Sydney," 
she  said,  "  I  am  quite  aware  that  the  past  year  has 
brought  them  as  much  happiness  as  young  wives  are 
entitled  to  before  they  can  have  had  experience  of  the 
sadder  side  of  life.  I  myself,  as  a  young  wife,  was 


424  WATERMEADS 

completely — I  might  almost  say  blissfully — happy, 
and  I  certainly .  should  not  wish  it  otherwise  for  my 
daughters.  If  the  past  year  had  done  no  more  for 
us  than  to  bring  Edward  and  Giles  into  the  family, 
I  should  indeed  say  that  we  had  reason  to  congratulate 
ourselves." 

"  The  Reverend  Edward  Probert  will  return  suita- 
ble thanks,"  said  Sydney,  "  which  will  be  seconded  by 
Mr.  Giles  Bellamy." 

Mrs.  Conway  closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them 
again.  "  I  am  fully  aware  also,"  she  continued,  "  that 
Fred  has,  to  use  a  vulgar  expression,  fallen  on  his  feet, 
and  Bobby  and  Billy  are  being  well  educated,  which 
is  all  to  the  good,  though  I  could  wish  that  their 
letters  contained  more  references  to  lessons  and 
were  not  always  full  of  this  eternal  playing  at 
cricket." 

"  Well,  that  only  leaves  you  and  me  and  Mother 
Bunch,"  said  Sydney,  "  and  I  don't  think  any  of  us 
three  has  much  to  complain  of.  You're  a  happy  per- 
son now,  aren't  you,  Mother  Bunch?  No  complaints 
to  make  of  life,  eh?  " 

"  I  like  living  here  better  than  at  Watermeads," 
said  Penelope.  "  So  does  Cooky,  though  she  pretends 
she  doesn't.  But  I  should  like  to  have  a  pony." 

"  Well,  if  you're  a  good  girl  you  shall  have  a  pony. 
Thank  goodness  one  can  manage  these  little  affairs 
now.  I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  about  a  pony, 
mother,  but  if  there's  anything  else  that  would  make 
life  pleasant  for  you  in  a  small  way  we'll  see  if  we 
can't  manage  to  let  you  have  it." 

"  Think  well,  mother,"  said  Elsie.     "  There  are  lots 


AT  MANOR  FARM  425 

of  things  I  should  ask  for  if  such  an  offer  were  made 
to  me." 

"  Thank  you,  Elsie,"  said  Mrs.  Conway,  "  but  I  am 
not  in  need  of  such  advice.  When  you  reach  my  age, 
and  have  been  through  all  that  I  have — although  I 
hope  and  pray  that  that  may  never  happen  to  you 
— you  will  not  perhaps  be  so  inclined  to  pin  your  hap- 
piness to  toys.  I  want  nothing,  Sydney,  I  thank  you. 
I  have  a  roof  over  my  head,  food  to  eat,  and  a  bed  to 
sleep  in ;  there  are  countless  thousands  who  are  not  so 
well  off  as  I  am.  I  am  content,  and  more  than  con- 
tent." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  good  hearing,  mother,"  said  Syd- 
ney. "  Then  you  and  I  are  in  the  same  boat,  because 
I'm  more  than  content,  too.  In  fact,  I  haven't  been 
so  happy  as  I  am  now  for  years  and  years.  Come 
along,  children,  and  let's  get  to  work.  Fred  and  I 
put  up  the  wire  this  morning,  and  we  shan't  have  to 
do  quite  so  much  ball-hunting  as  last  time." 

They  went  out,  through  the  paved  garden  in  front 
of  the  house,  round  by  the  old  orchard  and  down  to 
where  a  lawn  had  been  levelled  by  the  river.  Sydney 
walked  with  the  step  of  a  young  man  again.  He  was, 
in  fact,  supremely  happy.  The  lovely  June  weather, 
the  beauty  of  his  surroundings,  the  society  of  those 
whom  he  loved  or  liked,  the  pleasure  of  his  game — he 
could  enjoy  it  all  now  that  the  weight  of  care  which 
had  hitherto  clogged  his  life  was  removed.  The  way 
was  clear  right  ahead  of  him.  He  wanted  nothing 
more  than  he  had,  or  would  have,  till  the  end  of  his 

life. 

Mrs.  Conway,  left  alone  with  Penelope,  as  she  had 


426  WATERMEADS 

been  on  that  first  summer  afternoon  when  we  first  made 
her  acquaintance,  sighed  heavily. 

"  What's  the  matter,  mother  ?  "  asked  the  sharp- 
eyed  child.  "  Why  does  Dad  enjoy  himself  so  much 
and  you  don't  enjoy  yourself?  " 

Mrs.  Conway  sighed  again.  "  When  you  grow 
older,  darling,"  she  said  "  you  will  find  out  that  some 
people  have  light  natures,  and  nothing  makes  much 
impression  on  them,  while  other  people  have — 
have " 

"  Have  heavy  natures,  I  suppose,"  Penelope  helped 
her  out.  "  Yes,  I've  found  that  out  already.  I  had 
a  heavy  nature  myself  about  Freda;  but  I've  got  over 
it  now.  I  thought  we  had  treated  Freda  rather  badly, 
but  now  I  think  she  treated  us  rather  badly.  So  I 
don't  worry  about  her  any  more.  If  I  were  you, 
mother,  I  should  give  up  grumbling.  I'm  sure  you 
have  plenty  to  make  you  happy." 

Penelope  made  a  sudden  exit,  and  went  down  through 
the  orchard  to  join  the  others.  Mrs.  Conway  was 
stricken  to  the  heart  by  her  speech.  Her  own  dearly 
loved  child  had  turned  against  her,  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  the  rest,  on  whom  she  had  expended  an 
infinity  of  attention  and  maternal  love,  with  such  pain- 
ful and  unaccountable  results.  If  Penelope  could 
speak  to  her  like  that,  what  a  dreadful  and  sinister 
light  it  threw  upon  the  influence  to  which  the  poor 
child  was  subjected!  Oh,  that  light  and  shallow  na- 
ture, to  which  she  had  entrusted  her  own  happiness 
years  before,  what  mischief  it  could  work,  perhaps — 
for  she  must  be  fair — without  meaning  to  work  mis- 
chief! Well,  she  had  made  her  own  choice  long  ago, 


AT  MANOR  FARM  427 

and  must  go  through  with  it  unto  the  end.  But  one 
thing  she  would  not  have.  She  had  seen  her  elder 
children  led  away,  until  a  mother's  love  and  a  mother's 
authority  alike  had  been  meaningless  to  them.  She 
would  not  allow  her  youngest  to  be  drawn  away  along 
the  same  path.  She  would  act  before  it  was  too  late. 
Much  as  she  would  miss  the  child,  Penelope  must  be 
sent  to  boarding-school. 

Having  made  this  decision,  and  prepared  a  few 
heads  of  the  discourse  she  would  presently  deliver  to 
her  husband  on  the  subject — which  would  bring  him 
to  a  right  view  of  the  situation  he  had  created,  if  any- 
thing could — Mrs.  Conway  put  on  her  gardening 
apron  and  went  out  to  tend  the  flowers  in  the  paved 
garden  in  front  of  the  house.  She  had  taken  to  gar- 
dening with  some  zest  since  settling  at  Manor  Farm, 
and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  thoroughly  enjoyed 
spending  money  on  it,  to  an  extent  that  would  have 
shocked  her  a  few  weeks  earlier.  When  she  had  busied 
herself  for  some  time  with  her  trowel  and  scissors  and 
watering  pot,  she  suddenly  realised,  as  she  stood  up 
and  straightened  her  broad  back,  that  she  was  enjoy- 
ing herself  excessively.  There  were  no  troublesome 
accounts  to  take  her  indoors,  and  set  her  wondering 
how  she  should  ever  square  them;  there  were  no  wor- 
ries waiting  her  whatever.  She  could  enjoy  her  pot- 
tering with  a  clear  mind,  and  for  as  long  as  she 
wished.  And  afterwards  she  could  go  in  and  read  a 
novel,  by  Edna  Lyall,  until  it  was  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  She  gained  at  that  moment  some  slight  in- 
sight into  the  new  freedom  of  mind  which  was  so  hap- 
pily affecting  the  spirits  of  her  husband.  But  she  was 


428  WATERMEADS 

not  made  to  accept  contentment.  With  a  shake  of 
the  head  she  corrected  her  impulse  towards  sympathy 
with  him.  He  must  always  remain  her  cross ;  but  she 
would  do  her  duty,  and  bear  with  him  to  the  end. 

After  they  had  played  a  set,  and  sat  for  a  time 
watching  another  one,  Fred  and  Olivia  strolled  off 
along  the  river  bank,  and  presently  found  themselves 
in  the  wilder  parts  of  the  Watermeads  gardens,  where 
the  ground,  carpeted  with  the  skiey  blue  of  wild  hya- 
cinths, rose  and  fell  between  profusely  flowering  shrubs 
and  groups  of  tall-springing  trees. 

They  had  become  the  closest  friends,  these  two, 
since  that  parting  at  the  gate  of  the  Vicarage,  where 
Olivia  had  given  Fred  the  warning  that  had  so  soon 
proved  itself  to  have  been  justified.  It  was  long  since 
that  little  disturbance  had  been  cleared  away  between 
them.  She  had  shown  herself  so  kind  and  sympathetic 
over  Fred's  trouble,  when  it  had  lain  heavy  upon  him, 
and  he  had  seen,  when  once  he  had  begun  to  throw  off 
his  trouble,  what  affection  and  loyalty  had  prompted 
her  difficult  speech  to  him.  As  Freda's  image  had 
faded  from  his  mind,  Olivia's  filled  it  more  and  more. 
Just  that  sense  of  rest  and  security,  which  had  al- 
ways evaded  him  in  Freda,  were  to  be  found  in  Olivia, 
however  she  might  be  tested.  And  her  beauty,  to 
which  he  presently  seemed  to  himself  to  have  been 
strangely  blind,  grew  and  grew  upon  him,  until  he 
came  to  think  of  her  with  the  tenderest  admiration. 

He  kept  these  feelings,  when  they  became  strong,  al- 
most shamefacedly  to  himself.  It  would  be  offering 
her  a  love  as  light  as  he  saw  his  love  for  Freda  to  have 


AT  MANOR  FARM  429 

been  to  make  them  apparent  to  her.  She  must  be 
shocked  by  them,  and  he  could  hardly  hope  that  they 
would  be  returned,  so  short  a  time  after  he  had  made 
her  the  confidante  of  his  sore  and  stricken  heart.  He 
felt  debased  by  the  memory  of  his  love  for  Freda. 
Olivia  had  helped  to  heal  that  wound,  but  it  was  too 
recent  for  her  to  have  forgotten  it. 

But  still  his  love  for  her  grew  and  would  not  be 
denied.  He  thought  of  her  constantly  in  the  midst  of 
his  busy  life,  and  the  thought  of  her  was  a  pure  re- 
freshment. The  few  weeks  in  which  he  was  not  able 
to  spend  a  day  or  two  at  Watermeads  so  that  he  might 
see  her  were  dull  and  blank  to  him.  Presently  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  put  his  fortune  to  the  test,  but  diffidence 
in  her  presence  held  him  back,  and  for  week  after  week 
he  returned  to  London,  loving  her  increasingly,  but 
still  ignorant  of  whether  her  feeling  for  him  contained 
'any  love. 

They  had  been  talking,  in  the  most  friendly  inti- 
macy, of  the  new  life  that  had  begun  at  Watermeads. 
They  were  in  entire  agreement  about  it.  The  years  of 
struggle  that  had  come  to  an  end  had  been  happy 
years  for  those  who  had  grown  up  in  them.  "  I  sup- 
pose," Fred  had  said,  "  that  I've  already  had  more  fun 
out  of  Watermeads  than  ever  father  had.  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  shall  enjoy  it  more  than  I  have  already  if  it 
ever  comes  to  be  mine  in  such  a  way  that  I  can  live 
in  it — well,  as  the  Proberts  are  going  to." 

"  It's  the  place  one  loves,"  said  Olivia.  "  I  love  it, 
too,  you  know,  Fred.  It  isn't  the  house  so  much;  or 
at  least  it  certainly  isn't  the  way  of  living  thut  the 
house  seems  to  demand.  Dear  Mr.  Conway  found  that 


430  WATERMEADS 

out  long  ago;  and  that's  why  he's  happy  in  having 
given  up  the  house,  for  a  time.  He  keeps  all  the  rest 
that  he  loves — that  all  of  us  love." 

Fred  smiled  at  her.  "  You've  grown  up  to  it  all 
just  as  we  have,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  you  do  love 
Watermeads  just  as  much  as  we  do." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  didn't  know,  till 
I  came  back  to  it,  how  much  I  loved  it.  I  feel  as  if 
I  never  want  to  leave  it  again." 

The  impulse  came  to  him  to  ask  her  now,  and  his 
heart  leapt  into  his  throat  at  the  audacity  of  the 
thought.  He  looked  away,  and  said  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  voice,  which,  however,  shook  as  he  spoke :  "  I 
wish  you'd  say  you  never  will  leave  it,  dear  Olivia.  It 
has  always  been  the  chief  place  in  the  world  to  me, 
but  I  know  now  that  it  will  be  nothing  to  me  without 
you." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  he  summoned  up  his  courage 
to  go  on.  "  You  know  all  about  me,"  he  said,  "  and 
what  I  was  thinking  of  last  summer.  I'm  ashamed  of 
that  now — but  if  you  forgive  it !  "  He  had  meant  to 
say  more,  but  came  to  an  abrupt  end. 

They  walked  a  few  paces,  and  he  stole  a  look  at 
her  face.  She  was  blushing  deeply,  and  the  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes.  But  as  he  looked  at  her  she  looked 
at  him,  and  then  he  knew  that  there  was  no  question 
of  forgiveness  between  them,  but  only  the  question  of 
love.  And  that  question  was  already  answered. 

THE    END 


000169721     8 


